All I Ask of You
by RedDevilGirl
Summary: Set between BUABS and Heart. A run of mysterious deaths in a shipping yard should be an easy one to solve for the Winchesters. But is Sam too vulnerable after recent events for this to just prove to be routine? Hurt!Sam and BigBrother!Dean in abundance...
1. Prologue

"Damn kids again."

Wilson, groaned, looked up from his portable TV and checked his watch. They just wouldn't give it a rest. Every damn shift for the past damn week, he'd had his 'late night viewing' disturbed by the fact that the kids in this dead end town just had nothing better to do than clatter around his yard. At least it wasn't just him they were baiting for sport; Booth had reported the same on his two shifts earlier in the week. He hadn't wanted to admit it, but he'd been rattled by it. The younger guys always were. Wilson gave a knowing sniff; in his twenty-eight years working the dock, Wilson had never failed to catch the little bastards that were screwing around. Lord only knew what they were hitting the units with to make that noise. Sighing, knowing that they were probably just baiting him for sport, Wilson trudged his way out of the security cabin, knowing full well that he couldn't leave them running riot. Damned if he was gonna be held responsible for the forklifts getting damaged.

He clicked the cabin door closed behind him, seriously considering whether the situation warranted his gun. He liked to think that he still had an air of menace about him that meant even now in his early fifties, he didn't need to resort to weapons. Normally kids could be convinced to clear off with a few well placed words, having put the fear of God into them that they'd end up with a juvenile record for something as simple as trespass or vandalism. Still, something nagged at Wilson that he couldn't put his finger on; something a little bit more than the fact that kids nowadays didn't seem to be too worried about being punished by the Lord Almighty. These kids had plagued the security guards for days, but so far nobody had managed to get a hold of them, hell, not even managed to catch a glimpse of them to give a description. Well, they weren't getting away from Wilson tonight, he thought, puffing out his chest with an air of misguided resolve. The cold wind picked up slightly as he heard the banging sounds reverberating off the huge metal boxes, the echoes becoming deafening as he got closer to the source. There must be at least five, ten of them to be making so much racket. Wilson felt for his gun, raising it ready to shoot, but knowing he probably wouldn't. He felt a shiver creep up his spine as he rounded a stacked-high corner, prepared to come face to face with a gathering of teen delinquents.

He barely had time to inhale as the piercing scream tore from his lungs, echoing up and down the containers and around the lifting equipment. He dropped to his knees with a thud, his eyes frozen in a glassy, terrified stare.


	2. Chapter 1

Sam swallowed deeply, pulling his thin jacket around him a little tighter. His older, but shorter, brother was standing in front of him, his shoulders squared and the eerie shadow of his drawn Colt 1911 cast over his jawline. The yard was mostly dark but for a few sub-standard floodlights; Sam glanced over his shoulder, his keen eyes defensively and constantly checking the area around him and his brother.

"You see anything?" Dean hissed under his breath, his eyes darting from side to side over the corridor-like arrangement of containers. Sam scanned left, right, up, even down (because these sneaky bastards can get you from any angle). Nothing but cold corrugated metal with flaking paint jobs and a few dim security lights.

"Nothing." He scooted in a little closer behind his big brother, knowing that the spook had to be nearby. He cocked the rock salt gun that he'd insisted on bringing. They didn't know what they were dealing with, but Sam would bet his bottom dollar that a pistol wasn't gonna do it any damage. And that was saying something; Sam knew what it felt like to actually be down to their bottom dollar. And, more to the point, to actually see it being bet on yet another poker game…

"This bastard's gotta be someplace." Dean's voice interrupted Sam's somewhat off-topic thoughts. "Hell, it's been here every night for two weeks according to security. What the hell's keepin' it?"

"Well, did you book an appointment, Dean?" He hissed, unable to resist the nervous snark.

Dean gave him a sarcastic beam, wordlessly saying _Sam, you're an ass._ He knew it was adrenaline. He knew Sam was a bit nervy about this one. Hell, so was he. Narrowing his eyes, he squinted around in the dark and paused to check his watch. Witnesses had heard (were they even witnesses if they hadn't _actually _seen it, Dean wondered. Was there such thing as ear-witnesses?) the security man scream and found him dead at 11:30 the week before. 11:23. He glanced back at Sam. "If there's a pattern, looks like we're due some action in about seven minutes."

"There's always a pattern." Sam stated, not looking back at his brother but keeping his eyes keenly cast over the yard. Shipping containers were piled four high, giving the "street" down the middle of them an ominous look, the top looming a good fifty feet above the hunters' heads.

"I still think we should have done some more research, Dean." He flicked his hair out of his eyes, knowing full well that he needed a haircut, but he'd be damned if he was getting it done yet; he wasn't going to give Dean the satisfaction of thinking it was on his orders. He gave his mind a mental shake, knowing that his "note to self: cut hair" wasn't helping. His mind was wandering. Which meant only one thing. He was nervous. He did his best to switch his bothered brain back to the gruff tones of his brother's voice.

"Sam, you know so many people have died in this yard from God knows how many stupid, freaky accidents that not even you could pin it down. No harm in taking a peek first. Besides, most nights it just makes a noise". He glanced back to Sam. "We can handle noise, right?"

Dean's uncharacteristic, overly wordy justification for walking into this hunt stupidly under-prepared trailed off as a shiver vibrated down his spine. Both men jumped, simultaneously drawing in sharp, involuntary breaths at the sound of a sudden loud crash. They spun around, Sam swiftly raising a flashlight into the mass of metal boxes behind them.

"You hear that, Dean?" Sam hissed under his breath.

"Did _Back in Black_ sell 22 million copies?" Dean had jumped to his feet and was staring in the same direction as Sam, who frowned.

"What? I don't know…?"

"Yes, Sam, I heard that!" Dean's voice had an undertone of frustration. He hated to admit, he was nervous too. They couldn't pin the haunting on any reported deaths. They just had a collection of 

dead security guards on their hands, fallen down stone cold dead, not a mark on their bodies. A brief suited-up and fake ID visit to the coroner had confirmed that they had died of massive organ failure, but nothing more specific had been determined. However, rumour had it that a cold, shrill scream was heard echoing over the yard before each death. _Ain't nothin' natural makes a grown man scream like that. _The Texan drawl of one of the (ear?) witnesses ran through both brothers' memories as a gust of wind howled around them. Both men jumped again, Sam automatically covering his head with his arms as another huge crash surrounded them.

"Where's it coming from?" Sam glanced around, panicked. It was like something hitting the sides of the boxes, echoing around them, on top of them. BANG, another strike. Sam had the salt gun raised ready to strike….. but at what? There was nothing there. BANG, crashing, metal on metal. Getting closer. BANG. BANG. Repeating again and again, surrounding them.

"Just keep calm Sammy!" Dean warned, his pistol also raised. The crashing was enveloping them, even coming down over the top of them, repeatedly and unrelenting.

"You see anything?" Sam's voice rose slightly.

"Nothing yet. Keep watchin'" Keep calm, he repeated under his breath, a mantra to himself as well as a silent warning to his brother. This fugly bastard had to be somewhere. Had to be _something_… should have found out what we were dealing with before you came out here Winchester, you're an idiot. He had his back to Sam now, who stepped to physically lean against his brother. Dean was slightly relieved to feel Sam against him, not that he was scared, of course, but too many occasions of turning around and finding the other one missing meant the brothers had to know where the other one was, at all times. Particularly after Sam's latest - let's call it a vanishing act. It was the only way to keep a tab on one another; short of holding hands there wasn't a lot more that they could do to stick close. _Stick_ _close_. Something that had been drilled into them for over twenty years. The order was still there, buried in the memories of both hunters. _'Hold my hand Sammy'_. The echo of Dean's soft pre-teen voice that was always answered by Sam's small, smooth, trusting paw slipping quietly into his. Dean stole a glance at the man behind him, the huge, calloused and scarred hands now expertly gripping a sawn-off shotgun, how could they, how could he, have ever been that tiny? Turning his focus back to the hunt, Dean could feel Sam's chest heaving with adrenaline, and knew his heart was pumping just as quickly. But what the hell was it? The wind had picked up and was launching litter and debris past them at an astounding rate. Dean glanced over his shoulder, as his younger brother with his hair blowing forwards over his eyes, seemed to lose his temper.

"Okay you bastard, show yourself! Come on!" Sam yelled, his voice deepened by adrenaline and to anyone else, sounding mightily pissed off. Dean knew fear added a little to the throaty command that Sam bellowed at their unseen assailant. Suddenly, the wind stopped. As quickly as it had begun. Nothing for a heartbeat. Two heartbeats. They waited, the only sounds now the too-quick rise and fall of the chests of the Winchesters. Saying nothing, they nervously glanced around at each other, still keeping their weapons drawn. Dean felt Sam re-adjust his aim, the salt gun pointing down the dimly-lit space between the containers.

"Where are you..." Dean drawled quietly, his brother only just able to hear him. The yard had fallen silent.

"Is that it?" Sam relaxed his grip a little on the sawn-off.

"Somehow I don't think…so." He instinctively gripped his younger brother by the elbow. "Sam, run!"

Sam felt his brother yank his arm as he heard the deep rumbling of an engine, following by the whole area lighting up like Christmas. About one hundred yards away, saucer-like headlamps on an industrial sized yellow forklift were beaming in the direction of the brothers, the enormous lifting equipment beginning to growl into movement. Sam stared for a moment – who was driving the truck? Wait, no, been here before - too many times! _Course_ there was no driver. His brother had already turned on his heels and was racing in the opposite direction.

"Sammy, get your thumb outta your ass and freakin' move!"

Sam was startled into motion by his brother's frenzied call. Surely forklifts didn't move that fast? Yeah, surely not, but they generally didn't start up without a driver either. Dean vanished around a corner and out of the headlights, but Sam could still her his name echoing above the moving machinery, which wasn't too far behind him. God, I do need to get a move on, he thought. From somewhere he found an extra burst of energy and as the truck roared at his heels, he finally came to a gap between two large shipping containers, probably not four feet wide. He skidded his large frame into the gap, gasping and swearing under his breath as he fumbled, losing his grip on his flashlight, watching it crash to the ground and roll about six feet away. Can't get that back, only a flashlight, he consoled himself. Flattening his huge form against cold corrugated metal, he tried to catch his breath. The possessed (or haunted, Sam thought, because we're so freaking careless we don't know!) truck rumbled past, hunting down his brother. Praying silently for Dean to be okay, he was plunged into darkness as the headlights of the truck passed him. Great, he thought, really great. He stuck his head out of the gap, still watching as the metal monster rumbled on. Breathing heavily, he struggled to get his breathing back into something like a sensible pattern and clasped the salt gun to his side. Ready to take after the truck, not sure what he was going to do when he caught it but he sure as hell he wasn't going to let it hurt Dean, Sam raised the sawn off and prepared to run – but something stopped him.

The temperature surrounding him plummeted, lower than it had been all night and he became aware of his own icy breath being visible in wispy white threads in front of him. Again, a gust of wind ripped through the small void between the containers, and Sam winced as he felt an icy-cold touch on his shoulder. Spinning around and cocking the shotgun, he took a step back as the hand recoiled, a small, grey, feminine hand. A petite, overly thin figure of a girl, maybe seventeen, eighteen years old, with blonde hair covering her grey ashen face stood in front of Sam, her hands clasped against her chest. She held up her hands in a gesture that Sam would have used himself if trying to show someone not to be afraid. Sam wasn't ready to drop the gun yet.

"Who are you!" Sam barked a command rather than a question at the girl. "And you'd better let my brother go or I'll blast you back to wherever the hell it is that you came from!"

"A shotgun can't kill me, Sam." Her low voice wasn't aggressive; in fact it was almost melodic. Sam might have found it calming, well, as much as he could in a weird, dead-girl-is-talking-to-me-and-a-possessed/haunted-truck-is-trying-to-kill-my-brother kind of way.

"No?" Sam shifted slightly, adjusting his aim on the gun, still with one ear tuned to the truck engine that was no doubt gaining on Dean. "But it'll hurt like hell…". Sam was ready to take the shot when he noticed the girl's eyes grow wider, fearful. Yeah bitch, he thought, you might look scared, you stop that truck and we can talk about this.

Suddenly, he noticed, the yard seemed quieter. There was no engine noise. Nothing. Just his own breathing, and he was sure his own heartbeat thumping it's too-loud bass line in his ears. The girl pointed behind Sam, calling to him as she dissipated.

"Watch out Sam!" Her teenage shriek caused Sam to spin on his heels, gun still poised as he felt his neck snap backwards, losing his grip on the shotgun. He heard the salt gun crash to the ground and was vaguely aware that his feet were no longer touching anything solid. A single sound escaped from his lungs as he saw red corrugated metal advancing far too quickly on his upper body.

RDGRDGRDGRDGRDG

"Oh crap, oh, crap, oh… crap!" Dean breathed, looking over his shoulder frantically. Yes, typically, there was the killer truck, and even more typically, no sign of Geekboy. Where the hell had he managed to vanish to this time? More concerned with his younger sibling than with where he was going, Dean took another turn. All around him, multi-colored metal stacked up to possibly fifty feet 

high loomed down on him from both sides and – crap again, now from the front too. He turned, breathing hard, aiming to run the other way, knowing that if he stayed where he was, he was trapped. Surely that hunk of metal couldn't be agile enough follow him down here... he was wrong.

Dean swallowed as he found himself face to face with the headlights. Okay Winchester, he thought. If this was a horror movie, the thing would stop at the top, let me stare at its lights for a second and then I'd escape somehow. Yeah right, no freaking way. I never get a god-damn break. Dean groaned audibly as the truck continued its cumbersome chase without pause, the enormous lifting gear grinding as his legs unconsciously took over, running the remaining two hundred yards until he was genuinely cornered. His heart racing, he backed up against the metal boxes, swallowing hard, sure that Sam would be able to do something, Sammy will have a plan to save my sorry ass yet again. He's the brains of this outfit - hell, one of us had to be, we couldn't both have got the looks. He pressed himself harder into the cold metal, hoping to make himself invisible, the headlights bearing down on him faster, faster. Dean did the only thing he could think of. He closed his eyes. And waited.

The next few seconds felt like an eternity, a long blackness as he waited for the inevitable. And then he waited a little longer. Suddenly, Dean became aware that the yard had fallen quiet. And that he hadn't been squished into oblivion by a killer truck. Damn he hated killer trucks. He opened one eye slowly to see a stationary forklift, eyes (lights, moron, the damn thing's not alive!) no longer glaring, engine no longer roaring but oozing a little bit of steam from somewhere under the cab. Thanking his lucky stars or whatever else might be out there helping him, he glanced up, then set off running in the direction he'd come from. Gotta find Sam. The mantra echoed through his mind, gotta find Sam, gotta find Sam gotta find Sam gottafindSamfindSamfindSam…… where the hell was he? The sound of something crashing to the ground made Dean spin around.

Dean just about made out the deep, guttural sound of his name being called as he watched his younger brother projected through the air by an unseen assailant, hitting a red container head on and crashing fifteen feet to the floor, his arms still instinctively outstretched to break his fall.

"Sam!" Dean didn't even feel himself start running, pointing his pistol and unconsciously stooping to pick up the dropped salt gun. "Get away from my brother you bastard!" Dean screamed, despite there being nothing evident to scream at, and dropped to the floor to scrape up his brother as he'd done so many times in the past.

"Sam?" He took his brother's face in his hands and slapped his cheeks lightly. His pale face didn't look too good; but at least he opened his eyes slowly.

"Did… did you see anything, Dean? What was it?" Sam stammered, still lying on the ground with his brother's hands on his face.

"Nothing, nothing Sammy." Dean brushed Sam's tangled hair out of his brother's dazed eyes, still breathless. "Whatever it was thought you'd look prettier in a heap on the floor." He leaned further down to his brother. "You okay?"

"I think… bit bruised?" Sam's comment was accompanied by an involuntary moan.

Dean checked over his shoulder, making sure anything else that could harm him or Sammy had long since vacated. He checked back down to his brother, who despite his 'bit bruised' comment was blinking, repeatedly and panicked, in a familiar attempt to clear his blurred vision.

"Okay Sasquatch, think this one's over for tonight, you ain't hunting any more today." Dean patted his disorientated brother on the chest. "Come on. Can you sit up?"

Sam nodded, but suddenly realised that his right arm wasn't moving like it should do. Hell, suddenly realised that his right arm didn't feel right. At all. He leaned up on his left elbow and his blurry vision started to spin, his stomach rolling at the movement. Little black dots were dancing at the edges of his vision. He put his head back down onto the cold concrete. "Dean… I think… I don't feel…"

Sam felt his brother place a hand on his head and was sure he was saying something to him. He tried his best to work it out but his brother's face was swimming and the words were all mushy…. he gave in to the blackness. Dean will fix me.


	3. Chapter 2

Sam opened one eye slowly, aware of a dull headache behind his eyes and a nasty, evil taste in his mouth. What the hell had he been doing? One eye open, two eyes open - where was he? Blinking a couple of times, his vision started to clear a little and he managed to focus on the stained ceiling above him. So he was lying on his back. His headache sent a stabbing pain through his skull and he closed his eyes again, knowing that it would have been better for everyone if he'd just stayed asleep a little bit longer. Urgh, but this was more than a headache. Felt more like a hangover. Where the hell had he been?

He gently rolled his head to the side, his stomach rolling with it and he breathed in carefully. Another bed. There was always another bed. But this one was empty, and didn't look like it had been slept in. Maybe it wasn't even morning, it was still dark. He tried to sit up, knowing that the churning in his stomach couldn't be good, and if he _had_ been drinking he didn't remember but he knew what was coming next; he never could hold his liquor. There was a dull light coming from somewhere, probably a TV but he couldn't hear any sound. I've got to get up, he thought, his stomach stirring again. A feeling of dread mixed with the nausea in the pit of his stomach; the last time he couldn't remember what he'd been doing... well, he didn't want to remember. A small flutter of panic added to his already churning stomach as unconsciously, the sight of Steve Wandell's eyes becoming lifeless flashed through his fuzzy mind. And last time, he'd shot Dean. Dean. Where's my brother? Panicked, he tried to lean up but for some reason his arm wouldn't do as it was told… why can't I move my arm and why do I feel so sick? And where's Dean? He called out, his voice sounding weak and his head pounding at the effort. He expected Dean would come running, to tell him it was okay, and tell him what had happened. He called again, rolling onto his side. As he did, a wave of pain shot through his body starting with his right shoulder and radiating through every inch of his six foot four frame. Sam sucked in a deep breath, hissing through clenched teeth and knowing that he'd somehow done himself some damage. The shock of the pain was too much and he felt his stomach contract, unable to avoid throwing up over the side of the bed onto the floor. Dean's gonna go mad, he thought, as he helplessly choked the contents of his stomach down the motel comforter.

Dean woke with a start to the sight of his boot clad feet propped on the table, surrounded by the remnants of their first aid kit, a whiskey bottle a little over a third full, and the crappy motel television glowing a wicked blue in the corner. Leaping from the chair, he cursed himself for falling asleep, having intended to stay awake and watch over his passed out sibling until morning. A retching, choking sound met his ears, swiftly accompanied by a sour, sickly odour. "Dammit Sam!" He grabbed the small trashcan from under the table and raced to his brother.

Sam felt his brother rush to his side and saw him shove, albeit too late, a small waste paper basket underneath him. To his surprise, there were tears leaking down his cheeks; he was sure he wasn't crying but the sickness and the pain had shocked him. As the heaving subsided, Dean's rough hands gripped Sam's upper body and tried to ease him into a sitting position, but it hurt, his shoulder hurt so much. Gasping as he lay back against the headboard, Sam realized that he wasn't wearing a shirt, and his right arm had been strapped to his body and over his chest in a haphazard manner.

"S… sorry, Dean…" He gulped deeply and closed his eyes, fearful that his stomach was going to turn inside out again. Dean spotted the discomfort and handed Sam the trashcan, which he placed in his lap with his left arm grasped around it. Dean silently got up and filled a glass with cold water, sitting on the end of the bed (pulling his face at the worn carpet which now had the additional feature of an unsightly spraying of puke) and handing it to Sam.

"Nah kiddo, _I'm_ sorry. Must've fallen asleep. Besides, it's my fault for pumping you full of Jack last night." He smiled wryly. "How're you doin?" Dean clapped a brotherly hand 

on Sam's blanketed knee, as close to embracing his little brother as his emotional walls would allow.

"What the hell happened? Why d'you feed me whiskey? You know I'm useless with liquor…" Sam put his head back and closed his eyes. "Man, I feel rough."

"You don't remember?" Crap, thought Dean, this isn't good. He leaned forward and flicked on the bedside lamp. "Come on, open your eyes, let me see."

Taking a slow sip from the glass, Sam racked his pained brain for something to jog his memory of the night before. He was pretty sure they hadn't been out drinking; in fact, he thought they were on a hunt. Yes, they'd been hunting. And the last thing he remembered? A truck. And a girl. He opened his eyes to look at his brother as Dean searched his eyes intently, doing his too-familiar check for concussion.

"What's the last thing you remember, Sammy?"

"I dunno…" He breathed in deeply, his hungover, or concussed, or whatever head still making his stomach want to chuck back anything that might have been stubborn enough to remain in there. He shakily handed the water glass back to Dean, wanting to hold onto the trashcan just in case. He recovered from the stomach roll and squinted back up at his brother. "You were running, being chased by a truck. And there was a girl. A spirit, I think."

"Well, that explains a lot. Trust you to get your ass kicked by a girl." Dean stood up, ready to strip off the now-gross comforter. It'd been pretty dodgy anyway but Sam's redecoration hadn't really helped matters. Wrinkling his nose a little as he bundled up the bedding, he looked down at his green-faced brother, his brow furrowed. "You really don't remember anything after that?"

"Nope. Nothing." Sam racked his brain. Big, blank, black hole. "How'd we get back here?"

"Well, you'd landed that freakishly big frame of yours on your shoulder; popped it right out. It looked really weird, believe me, it sticking out like-" Dean paused as he prepared to pose in an awkward, deformed position, wondering if he could twist himself into a quasimodo type pose, then changed his mind, suddenly realising forcing Sam to picture his gross injury might mean them making acquaintance with anything that was left in his younger brother's stomach. "Well, sticking out funny anyway. You passed out, then when you finally decided you could be bothered to wake up again, you wouldn't let me near it. It was a real mess, Sammy, honestly." Dean shuddered at the thought of his younger brother writhing in pain and looking like a battered quarterback. "Thought it was gonna be an ER job, you really went loco when I had to touch you."

"So, it was our old friend Jack and a wooden spoon between my teeth then, huh?" Sam frowned, really not remembering any of it. "_You_ fixed it?"

"Course I did. I'm your big brother. I can fix anything." Dean's mind wandered back to the previous night as he rolled his shoulders. Yeah, he thought, a wooden spoon would have probably made things a lot easier. His muscles ached from the night lugging his not-so-little brother's limp form to the car and then sleeping in a wobbly chair to top it off. It kinda made sense that Sam didn't remember; the kid had been pretty out of it. Adding a little more than a dash of whiskey into the mix hadn't helped, Dean knew that, but it was the only way for him to get his hands on the mess that was previously Sam's upper body. He cursed himself, knowing that he'd probably made the wrong decision. 

He should have put the shoulder back in and refused to give Sam the whiskey; it was probably a really dumb idea. But he had to make a judgement. And sometimes he got it wrong. Hell, he _often_ got it wrong. But he was doing his best. Watching out for Sammy.

The other problem he'd faced, although he hated to admit it, was that Sam really _did_ have a lot more upper body strength than he gave him credit for; somewhere in the last six or seven years, Dean had dropped his guard and whilst he wasn't looking, Sam had somehow slipped past Dean, managed to turn himself from a gangly teenager into a powerhouse of a hunter. And as Dean had found out on more than just the previous evening's occasion, a powerhouse in pain is _really_ hard to physically subdue. He shuddered slightly as he remembered Sam's pained yells and whimpers as his muscles contracted in painful spasms. Treating it himself had had also been the only way they were going to get out of awkward questions; like, how did he manage to get a concussion and dislocated shoulder, what's his name, how the hell did he get all these scars, and more importantly, get themselves on the FBI radar again. So Dean had tried to stay up to watch him, kicking himself and cursing that they'd got to the point where he couldn't take his injured little brother to the ER. And then kicking himself again, a bit harder this time, for falling asleep.

Sam swung his legs to the side of the bed, feeling his bare feet hit the floor. He realised that he was wearing sweatpants and hoped to God that he'd been coherent enough and physically able to undress and dress himself the night before. He ran his free hand over his face. "I'm going to clean up."

He shakily got to his feet; needing some time on his own, the irony of the gap in his memory bringing back bad memories not lost on him.

"You manage?" Dean raised his eyebrows, not wanting to smother his younger brother but not wanting him to struggle.

"I'll call if I need you to hold it." Sam flipped him off with his good hand, which of course roughly translated into Winchester meant 'thank you for taking care of me'. Dean shook his head and sighed, wrinkling his nose at the clean up job in front of him.

He emerged twenty minutes later, having managed to remove all the strapping from his chest and cradling his damaged arm against his body. A towel was wrapped around his waist. Dean knew his brother was going to need a hand; there had to be some damage to the tissue surrounding his shoulder. He shuddered slightly again at the memory, hating that he was probably a little more squeamish than he would ever admit. Wordlessly he picked up a long sleeved button down shirt and offered it in his brother's direction. Knowing that it wasn't worth the argument, and not wanting to repeat the painful struggle of removing the bandaging, Sam sighed and walked over to his brother, grimacing with slight awkwardness but accepting his help nonetheless.

"So, Sammy, tell me about this chick. She hot?" Dean winked as he eased Sam's shirt up his weakened right arm, pulling it around his back to let him put his left arm in.

"Very funny, Dean." Sam frowned, feeling a little better after his shower and fumbling one-handed with the shirt buttons. "She… she knew my name."

"She what?" Dean raised a single eyebrow as he stood in front of Sam and took over fastening the buttons.

"She called me by my name."

"Then flung you over the yard? Hell, that's the worst pick up I've ever known a chick try." Dean reached the bottom of Sam's buttons and automatically turned down his collar. "I need to strap that arm back in a sling, you're not using it for a couple of days. You really did yourself some damage little brother." Dean raised his eyebrows, his expression stern. "How long's it been since you got the cast off that arm?"

"Yeah... yeah I know. Not long enough." Sam blew his hair out of his face, slightly aware that his brother seemed to be scolding him. "I'll be fine, Dean, I'll rest, I promise." Sam turned over his wrists, wincing slightly as his brother buttoned his right cuff.

"You know, I'm not sure it was her who attacked me." Sam sat down to dress his lower half as Dean threw him boxers and jeans.

"What? You're chatting to a dead girl and then you get launched backwards and bounced off your noggin, you don't think it's her that did it?" Dean began to pack up the remnants of the first aid kit that were strewn over the table whilst _really_ hoping that Sam could cope dressing south of the border himself. "I'm gonna need to restock…" he muttered to himself, the contents somewhat depleted after caring for his own recent... shoulder injury. They'd glossed over the exact details of _that_ as much as possible. He snapped his head back up to look at Sam. "So what d'you think it was then?"

"I'm not sure. I had the gun pointed at her and I was pretty ready to shoot. I could hear the truck engine going for you…" Sam stopped fumbling with the button on his jeans to guiltily look up at his brother. "Shit, Dean, sorry man. I..." Sam looked up, his distress evident and his breath hitching slightly.

"I know, I know. You forgot." Dean didn't look up from packing the first aid kit. Bandages, syringes, some nameless painkillers acquired from he wasn't sure where, all safely stowed away, unconsciously waiting for Sam's reply, which didn't come. Huh? He looked up, hearing nothing but a heavy sigh from his brother.

"What?"

"I can't... I can't remember any of it, Dean." Sam's breathing quickened as Dean rolled his eyes.

"Okay, okay. I get it." Dean put down everything his was holding and sat wearily down on one of the wooden chairs backwards, folding his arms over the chair back and looking up in a silent prayer. Come on. I've dragged his unconscious sorry ass for what seemed like the best part of a hundred miles, performed minor surgery in a motel room and that's only been beaten by mopping up puke... _please_ give me a break on the emo-sobbing-panic attack... he wasn't sure he could physically take any more. Aware of his brother's chin about to start quivering in a terrified panic, he looked him straight in the eye. Man, he looked so tired.

"Sammy, don't worry. It's... nothing to do with... nothing to do with last time. You know that. You just..." He breathed in deeply, watching his brother's eyes widen and wondering where his brother's faith in him came from. "Just got a monster smack on your swede, that's all."

"D'you... d'you think that's it?"

"Course that's it, Sammy. That Demon's long gone. Isn't it?" Dean raised his eyebrows, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on tugging at the back of his mind and he shuddered a little... was it cold in here? Yeah, a little cold. Nothing to do with the memory of Sam's deep hazel eyes flashing demonic black coursing through his mind. I'll work out how to put the heater on in a minute.

Sam sighed. "Yeah. Course it is. I just..." _Got_ _scared_. He didn't want to say it. He didn't have to.

"Well, believe me, you've not been out of my sight for the last..." He checked his watch, wondering how long it had been since he stupidly ran off and left Sam behind him to get hurt by the spirit-girl. "Seven hours. I promise." He nodded his head gently to reassure Sam, thankful that the emo-sobbing disaster might just about have been averted.

"Good," Sam breathed shakily through the word, feeling a little better and pushing his hair out of his face. Change the subject. That's what Winchesters do best. "Okay. What happened then?"

"Hmmm… well, that was a freaky one. Thing had me cornered. Then it just - just stopped." Dean shrugged. "Then I heard you screaming like a girl and I kinda got sidetracked." Dean kept his head down. He felt funny; somewhere in the pit of his stomach he felt hollow. If he hadn't known better, he'd have thought it was guilt for dragging Sammy into a hunt when they were both tired, Sam was preoccupied and without enough details to know what they were dealing with. He wrote off the feeling to the fact that he hadn't eaten in almost twelve hours.

"Dean… if this is some kind of angry spirit, why'd it change its mind?" Sam flicked his wet hair out of his face and looked at his brother, evidently confused and those big expressive eyes expecting Dean to know all the answers. Dean felt the years-old look boring into him, its usual weight on his shoulders.

"How the hell do I know? You know Sam, for a smart guy you sure do ask me some dumb questions."

Dean knew that wasn't really fair. Sam did ask some unnecessary questions, but he knew that his brother only did that when he was worried, looking for some reassurance. Dean picked up a bottle of anti-inflammatory pills still rolling loose on the table and threw them to his brother.

"Take some of these, they'll help your arm. And your head's probably still giving you hell."

Sam deftly caught them with his left hand and carefully used his right to open the childproof container. He reached for the glass of water from earlier. "What time is it?"

"A little after seven. Your little upchucking performance woke us just before dawn."

Sam lay back on Dean's bed, his whole demeanor screaming 'miserable'. He scowled at the bare bedsheet on his own bed, Dean having finished stripping the blankets from his whilst he was showering. Gently laying his right arm over his chest to support his aching shoulder, he watched lazily as his brother continued to tidy up. It never ceased to amaze him; if there were guns, weapons or first aid supplies to be packed up, Dean was positively anal about keeping them straight and tidy. A few day old pizza box, however, was invisible to him.

"So, what next then? Suppose I'd best start seeing what I can find on this chick." Sam closed his eyes and threw his left arm over his face, not really ready for spending the morning at his laptop.

"I don't think so little bro. No school for you today." Dean picked up his jacket, a little aware that he'd spent the night in clothes that he'd been running around the yard in. "I'm gonna go get us some breakfast. Can you eat something, Sicky?"

"Yeah… yeah, I guess so. And that wasn't my fault. I didn't know I couldn't move! It's not like I drank _myself_ unconscious!"

"Hey, yeah, like you've never done that before. But it was that or send Hendrickson a postcard from the Emergency Room, your choice Samantha. Honestly, I've not heard moaning and groaning like that since that waitress in -"

"Dean! Man, enough, do you want me to hurl again? Just get some breakfast already!" Sam smiled in spite of his pain. "Oh and Dean?"

"Yeah?" He turned back to his younger brother, still splayed out but luckily now fully dressed, on his bed. He's gonna give me some kind of emo thank you… Dean smiled, ready to brush it off.

"Can you get me some coffee?"

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny." Sam's voice was still weak.

Dean flicked the car keys into the air and caught them again with the same hand and grinning back at his brother. "Yeah, yeah. And you know what else?"

"What?"

"You're welcome." He didn't turn back as he pulled the door closed behind him.


	4. Chapter 3

Sam woke to the sunlight peeking its way through the grubby motel curtains. Not having a clue what time it was, he rolled his eyes to the other bed, searching for Dean. Finding the other bed empty and only sporting a rumpled, white bedsheet, he reluctantly recalled the night (or morning?) before, cringing with slight embarrassment. Throwing up in front of someone is never good, even if it's your brother. In fact, _especially_ if it's your brother. Luckily he remembered not to pull himself up with his right arm.

"Dean? What time is it?" Sam called out, his voice still husky from sleeping so long. He sat up, pushing his long hair out of his face. "Dean?"

He glanced around the room. The laptop was open on the table, the bathroom door was open and Dean's jacket, shirt and jeans were hung (of a fashion) on the back of one of the rickety chairs. "Huh". Sam breathed, realising that he was on his own. He took a seat next to the laptop, wiping his fingers over the mousepad to nudge the computer into waking and to check the time. Eleven thirty-two. Oh my God, he thought, eleven thirty-two? No way have I slept that late. I never sleep that late. Glancing down at the computer, the search engine was still up on the screen. A capitalised and obviously hastily scribbled note was written on a flattened paper bag next to the PC.

HEY SLEEPING BEAUTY THESE BITCHES DON'T HUNT THEMSELVES GONE TO SEE CORRONER CORRENER TO THE MORGUE AGAIN

CALL ME WHEN YOU WAKE UP

HUGS AND KISSES FROM THE MOST AWSOME BRO IN THE WORLD

PS GOT YOU SOME BREAKFAST DON'T GO PUKING IT BACK UP HAHA

Sam smiled as his attention turned to a brown paper bag on the table. His brain still feeling a little like it was filled with cotton, he hungrily unscrunched the top hoping that his comedian of a brother had actually left him something edible. Luckily finding a huge blueberry muffin and a bottle of OJ he tore open the cap, glancing at the computer. Dean must have found something to take off without him. He picked a blueberry out of the top of the muffin and was pleasantly surprised when he managed to eat it without wanting to dash for the bathroom. Picking up his cellphone ready to call his brother as the badly scrawled note had ordered, he heard a clicking in the lock, followed by the motel door swinging open.

"Mornin' gorgeous." Dean winked sarcastically as he strode into the room, loosening his tie and throwing his suit jacket onto Sam's stripped bed.

"You know Dean," Sam mumbled through muffin-filled cheeks. "Coroner has one 'R'. Not to mention awesome having an 'E'."

"Thought it didn't look right." Dean muttered, frowning slightly and then remembering to reprimand his younger sibling. "You never have liked following orders have you? And after I left you such a lovely note."

Humour aside, Sam knew he was getting a mild ticking off from his brother. The disappearing act he'd unconsciously pulled whilst possessed by Meg had left them keeping an even closer eye on each other than usual. Dean had been back out to do some research for an hour or two and was expecting Sam to have called much earlier. And he didn't want to admit he'd rushed back to check on him. Sam did however look remarkably better than he had earlier; a little colour had returned to his pallid complexion, although the too-familiar darkened circles under his eyes remained. It was the first time that Dean had looked at his brother properly for a long time, and if he was honest, they'd probably been there weeks. At least since their last run-in with Meg. Nothing to do with the beating he'd taken last night; although, that probably really hadn't helped.

"Sorry man, I only just woke up, like, ten minutes ago. I was just going to call." He waved his cell at his brother defensively.

"I bet that's what you say to all the girls." Dean threw himself back onto the bed and bounced slightly. "So, feeling better?"

"Yeah I think so." Sam took another sip of the orange juice, looking around for some more painkillers for his shoulder. Dean must have packed up the first aid kit…. No, there they were, he'd left them out. He clicked open the canister and washed down another couple of capsules. "Shoulder still hurts like a bitch though."

"So you're not up to giving me that ass-kicking that you promised me last night?"

"No I'm... I did what?" Sam frowned. Oh. He did kinda remember that. Somewhere in his fuzzy mind he could feel Dean's hands on his shoulder, and heard a deep voice, growling and cursing. Jeez, was that me? And oh, God, how embarrassing, he could hear his brother's low, deep voice telling him it was okay, "Don't cry Sammy, I know, I know it hurts." Sam cringed.

"Gonna f-ing kick my ass so f-ing hard..." Dean grinned as he remembered Sam's outburst. Sam's cheeks flushed slightly. "Bring it on, little brother."

"Sorry man. Did I growl at you?" Sam smiled a little in spite of himself as the events from the night before fell into place slightly; still no memory of getting back to the motel room but half remembering Dean telling him that he'd put his shoulder back in on three... and shoving the joint back together on the count of two. Bastard. "You're an ass, Dean, I wasn't ready."

"So you remember that then?" Dean raised his eyebrows, somewhat relieved that his brother only seemed to have a concussion.

Sam visibly relaxed at the vague memory, his panic subsiding a little. Dean's right, he thought. It's not like last time.

"You should probably have ice on that." Dean interrupted, wondering whether he'd seen an ice machine on his travels through the motel. A pang of guilt washed over him; if they'd researched the hunt properly to begin with, Sam wouldn't be hurt. This was hardly watching out for him.

"Nah, nah, I'm good. Sure it'll be fine." Sam defended himself a little too quickly, not wanting to have to sit and rest with an icepack on for half the day. He stole a brief look towards Dean's shoulder. He said it was fine now. He certainly seemed to be fine; but it didn't mean Sam was about to whinge and whine about a dislocation and a bump on the head when he'd put a bullet through his big brother in the far too recent past.

He was pulled from the guilty pit that he was teetering on the edge of by moving his own shoulder a little too fast and hissing through his teeth at the sudden pain. He knew his brother had rolled his eyes without even looking at him, and he started to flick through the laptop.

"So where've you been? Why're you suited an' booted - what've you found? You know what we're dealing with yet?"

"One question at a time kiddo, the grown ups have been working." Dean loosened his boots without quite untying them and kicked them off with a thud onto the floor. He knew the comment would earn him a pout from Sam - yes there it was, sulky-Sam in all his glory. "Okay, okay. I've been back to the coroner's office and talked to the wonderful Suzy."

"Suzy?"

"Yeah, Suzy." Dean raised a lustful eyebrow. In all honesty, the girl wasn't all that, but hey, it'd been like… maybe three weeks and – concentrate Dean! He shook his head slightly to remove Suzy's… assets from his mind's eye and turned his attention back to Sam. "The, I don't know, junior coroner chick. Or coroner's assistant or whatever she is. She ain't in charge anyway. Anywho, she said there's still no specific cause of death for that guy Wilson. They just can't work it out. Although she did tell me one thing."

"What?"

"The bit that they couldn't work out. His organs had reacted as if he'd starved to death."

"What? Wasn't he, like, a big fat dude?"

"Believe so. Few too many donuts eaten in that security cabin. But they can't understand it. Starved to death. The guy weighed like, nine million pounds or something. Which is why they haven't got an official cause of death yet; they can't work it out."

"Definitely our kind of weird…"

"And it wasn't before? You sure your head's okay? You forgotten the killer forklift? That's not all either. I went back to the yard and talked to an old guy who works there, dude called Billy Oliver. Three guys have died the same way, two before Wilson. Turns out they were all the yard's old boys, been working the security there since the dawn of time. None of the newer guys have been touched by it. See? I'm good at this!"

Sam's jaw twitched into a sarcastic, closed mouth smile. He turned back to the computer and typed one-handed the name of the local newspaper into a search engine. Although his brother failed to believe it, there was a skill to using these things. "Why don't you go find us some coffee? I'm sure you promised to get some this morning."

"Yeah, and you were still catching z's when I got back."

"Dean…"

"Aw, I just took my boots off!"

"Well, okay, I'll go, I'll just struggle back with two cups in my one good hand." Dean huffed loudly. "Okay, okay! I'm going!" He grumbled as he replaced his footwear, knowing full well that Sam had played him just as well as he always did. "Just – just make sure you've found out something useful by the time I get back."

Sam said nothing but gave his older brother a somewhat sarcastic, beaming smile, earning him Dean's middle finger and the slamming of the door. He lowered the contrast on the computer screen, the dull throb in his head not being helped by the glare of the laptop. He remembered the girl from the night before; her grey skin and sunken, drawn features that had probably been quite pretty before, well, before _something_ happened to her.

Her hair intrigued Sam though. Girls didn't wear their hair like that any more. Her blonde hair was…. big. Sam wasn't sure how she would get her hair like that, but he knew nobody had done that since what - the eighties? Which made it what, fifteen, maybe twenty years ago? He managed to find the homepage for a local paper and luckily, it had a search box.

Typing in the words 'murdered teen', he hit 'enter'. _Your search has returned no results_. Rethinking the search, Sam tried 'teen accident death'. Two results – relating to teenage boys in a car accident. Not what he was looking for. Thinking again, he tried another search. 'Missing teen'. Five results. He clicked the articles, shivering slightly as he felt a slight chill to the room. Top two articles related to two runaways a few years back who had returned of their own accord. He rolled his good shoulder as he used his weakened right hand to drive the computer. His eyebrows raised in interest at the photograph that now filled his laptop screen. A petite, pretty blond teenager's photo filled the screen, her perm and knitted sweater anchoring her in an era that Sam barely remembered. He scanned the related article quickly.

_The disappearance of eighteen year old Emma Carragher has baffled local police for the last fifteen years. At first thought to be nothing more than a runaway, her without-a-trace vanishing in 1987 remains one of the most intriguing local unsolved mysteries. _

_A gifted singer, Emma's talents made her something of a local celebrity. She'd recently auditioned for parts on Broadway, a lifelong ambition of hers meaning a dream move to New York was on the cards. Parents Jennifer and Abe Carragher described her as 'the girl who had it all'; putting pay to rumours that she had simply run away from home._

Sam blinked; surely the ghost wasn't simply a runaway? And could you even _be_ a runaway if you were eighteen? He yawned, slightly aware that he probably shouldn't be concentrating on the screen quite so intensely.

_The question of what happened to Emma Carragher was on everyone's lips locally. At first thought to be the victim of nothing more than soccer-mom syndrome, Lakewood was asking itself whether we put too much pressure on our kids. _

_Her childhood talent meant that Emma was classically trained from an early age and was something of a local celebrity amongst choral groups. However, Emma's big passion was musicals, having played lead roles in local and school productions. Spotted by a talent scout at age fifteen, mild-mannered Emma could have taken a part in a major musical at a much earlier age, but preferred to remain at home and finish her schooling. Billed as Lakewood's next success story, she failed to return home from an evening out with friends on September 14th, 1987. _

Clicking the 'next' screen to bring up the second part of the article, he was met with a 'page cannot be displayed message'. He swore under his breath, cursing the substandard motel wireless. Man, he was still sleepy. And it was less than an hour since he had woken up. He tried to convince himself that there wouldn't have been a problem if Dean had actually brought some caffeine back with him like he said he would. Dean's fault. Nothing to do with the bang on the head or the alcohol. And definitely nothing to do with the fact that he'd been put through the mill by Meg.

Struggling to keep his eyes open and attempting to reconnect the website, Sam leant his head on his good arm, just for a second, unaware of the sudden drop of temperature in the already draughty motel room. And just as he dropped back off to sleep, he wasn't sure whether he heard the words, whispered in a deep, low voice…_"she's mine"_

Sam jolted awake to the sound of the door slamming shut. Bolting upright and blinking, he wondered how long he'd been out. Dean set coffee and sandwiches down on the table and started to remove his jacket.

"So, you found anything?" His back was to his brother and he turned round, settling into the chair opposite Sam. "You had the windows open? It's cold in here."

Sam glanced around him and shook his head swiftly. "Find what?" he answered blankly.

"The girl." Dean frowned, pulling the top off his steaming hot black coffee and pushing the other cup towards Sam, along with the peripherals he would require to make his coffee drinkable. "Were you asleep again?" He eyed his brother suspiciously.

"Nah, I don't - no. I wasn't." Slightly embarrassed, Sam reached out for the large cardboard cup and being careful with his injured arm, fumbled with a tiny container of cream, huffing slightly as it squirted up his sleeve.

"Yes you were. You've got half the keyboard imprinted on your face." Dean snarked at him.

"No I..." Sam ran his hand over his cheek, checking for indentations and scowled at his ass of a brother. Dean grinned and clicked his fingers at him.

"Made you look Sammy. You okay?" He raised his eyebrows in a jovial manner, not wanting to appear _too_ concerned.

"Yeah, just a rough night."

"Tell me about it! At least _you_ got some sleep."

"I'm not gonna feel bad about it Dean, how many times have I stayed up watching your stupid concussed head or waiting up cos God alone knows what, or who, you're doing!"

"Well, that's because you're an old woman. So tell me about the dead chick." He bounced onto the end of Sam's bed so that he could see the computer over his brother's shoulder, balancing his cardboard cup between his knees. He pulled open the sandwich's cellophane wrapper and wolfishly tore a large chunk of bread from the top of it.

"Do you have to eat like that?" Sam's upper lip curled slightly in mild disapproval of his brother's table manners and pushing his sandwich to one side, unopened. "I did find something, actually."

He clicked a few buttons on the laptop to wake it up again. "Emma Carragher, age eighteen, vanished 1987. Disappearance a bit of a local legend, first off they thought she'd run away, maybe 'cause her parents put too much pressure on her –"

Dean cut Sam off mid sentence and mumbled open-mouthed. "What, running away from her family?" He paused and sucked a blob of mayonnaise off his thumb. "Nah, can't see why anyone would do that."

Sam glared back at his brother, who was brushing crumbs off his chest onto the bed. "Cheap, Dean, that was cheap. Anyway, she never showed up, then they're thinking kidnapping. She was supposed to be a really good singer. Really into her shows and sounds like she might've just been on the verge of getting a break on Broadway…. Well maybe."

"Broadway? What, like all-singing, all-dancing?" Dean pulled the cellophane on his sandwich down lower. "What the hell appeals to a teenager about _that_?"

"Yeah... like, what is it about classic rock music that appeals to a guy in his twenties?" Sam raised his eyebrows.

"Touche, Sammy. I still don't get it."

"Well, me neither, I'm just saying what the papers say. But anyway, sounds like she was doing well with some auditions, but she just, vanished without a trace." Sam pulled the laptop closer so that his brother could see the photograph. "Presumably sometime since that article was written, what, five-ish years ago, they've still not found a body. And from what I saw in the shipping yard, there's definitely a body somewhere."

"So why didn't we pick her up before?" He swigged at his coffee, gasping slightly as he burned his tongue. Serves him right, the glutton, thought Sam silently, sitting back and taking a deep breath.

"There's still nothing to link her to the yard. No reason she should be grounded there."

"So what do we know?" Dean pulled his tongue out, it suddenly feeling exceptionally furry since the last mouthful of coffee. He was quite affronted that the coffee had had the cheek to damage him - did it not know who he was? Dean Winchester, demon hunter extraordinaire… He opened his eyes overly wide to stop his fatigued mind from wandering. He always struggled through Sam's monologuing.

"Parents, well, her Mom, still lives in the area. Looks like Dad passed away a few years ago. And a local girl called Charlie Burton is quoted as being 'a close personal friend'".

"Close personal friend hey?" Dean raised his eyebrows. "Okay, you take the parents, I'm getting me some up close and personal." Dean eagerly drained the rest of the steaming hot coffee and slammed the cup down on the table with a little too much force, rubbing his hands together.

"Dean, why do I –"

"Dean why do I blah blah blah…" Dean grinned as he imitated Sam in a high pitched, whiny voice. "You're more the…. parents type." He nodded to himself to give his argument a little more weight.

"That's - that's crap!"

"You go and give them the puppy dog eyes and they'll tell you everything you want. And you're forgetting Sammy, this ain't no teenage girl any more. We're like, twenty years on, she'll be _all_ woman by now." Grinning and resisting the temptation to make some lewd hand gestures, he waited for Sam's inevitably sulky response. The open-mouthed argument followed by a king-sized pout proved to him one thing; Sam felt better.

"No way Dean. We're both going. To both houses! Besides," he added. "You're not gonna send me out on my own are you? I _have_ got a head injury." Sam stuck out his bottom lip slightly, knowing that his brother actually wasn't planning on going anywhere without him. Was he?

"Whatever dude. You're fine. There's so much rubbish in your freaky head anyway it'd cushion any blow." He jumped to his feet, resisting the temptation to ruffle Sam's hair; a move that always used to get him a huffy 'Dean!' from his brother. "You just, just keep those girly eyes to yourself".


	5. Chapter 4

Dean swung the driver's door of the Impala closed as he squinted up into the sun. He raised an eyebrow over the top of the car, just daring his idiot of a brother to say anything. He doesn't have the balls. Does he? He aggressively shot Sam a look as sharp as the knife he kept under his pillow. I hate him. Sam's smirk was unbearable. Dean pointed an angry, accusatory finger at his brother as he clambered out of the car, the collar on his department store suit sticking up a little.

"Don't start, Sam." Dean's voice almost rumbled as deep as the Impala's V8 engine.

Sam's grin grew even wider, God, Dean thought, how many teeth has that guy got? The older brother's thunderous frown etched itself deeper into his forehead. "I mean it, Sam, we're working."

Sam gazed in the same direction as Dean, reckoning that he had at least a minute until they reached the door. The ache in his shoulder was almost forgotten in the wake of Dean's sterling performance at the home of the wonderful Charlie Burton. Sam chuckled to himself, remembering the woman at least fifteen years, and maybe a hundred pounds, superior to Dean. He'd never seen such a look of pure terror in his older brother's face at the suggestion that her husband was working away and her kids would be in bed by eight… She could tell him a lot more about Emma Carragher then. And it wasn't just the sheer bulk of Charlie; Dean had never, ever, come across a woman who was so sexually aggressive. And he was scared.

Sam opened his mouth to say something, anything, and was cut off sharply by his brother drawing a sharp line in mid air with his left hand. He shot Sam a glare that he hadn't seen in a long time, in fact, since his Dad last told him to zip it, and had meant it. Okay. I will. For a while. He flashed Dean a cheeky grin as he shook his head, knocking on the front door that twenty years ago had belonged to Emma Carragher.

RDGRDGRDGRDGRDG

"So which paper did you boys say you were from?" Jennifer Carragher set two cups of tea, rattling against scalloped-edged saucers, down on her coffee table. Dean's forehead creased suspiciously as he wondered how appropriate it was to put _tea_ on a _coffee_ table? He thanked Jennifer as she took a seat, leaving it to Sam to gloss over her question. He hated tea.

"We're working an article on unsolved cases." Sam lifted his saucer, skirting around her query as expertly and naturally as Dean had expected, and looking at the cup with an air of concern. His heart picked up a little; teacups and saucers were never a good thing, his fingers were too big for the little handle and his hand always seemed to develop a stupid, impromptu shake that made him sure that the whole thing was going to crash to the floor. And his tired, aching body meant his hand was more unstable than usual.

Dean frowned, sensing Sam's awkwardness and resisting the urge for a second to take the teacup from his brother's hand, the ghost of a long-forgotten, panicky exclamation of 'No, Sammy!' echoing from somewhere from his deepest, darkest memories as he recalled wrestling so many forbidden objects from Sam's pudgy, over-inquisitive four year old hands. A small smirk pinched at the sides of Dean's mouth as he thought, what the hell, and reached over to the cup, separating it from the saucer and handing the cup back to Sam. Sam opened his mouth slightly in protest, aware that Jennifer seemed a little confused. The china looked ridiculously tiny in Sam's gargantuan hand and he pulled his best 'bitch' face back at his brother.

"I'm sorry ma'am, Sam here's on work experience; he's not quite learned how to handle a cup 'n' saucer yet… that's on next week's training schedule."

Sam opened his mouth intending to speak, but instead uttered some kind of stuttered protest that didn't quite form words. Dean gave him the most condescending look he could manage and placed the saucer back on the table. He will never mention Charlie Burton to me, or anyone, ever again. 

"When he can drink from a grown-up's cup like a big boy, we're going to let him write with a pen too."

Jennifer laughed. "Don't you worry sweetheart, I'm sure your boss here is making sure that you learn everything the hard way."

Boss? Perfect. Dean smirked at his younger brother, knowing full well that the evil glare that Sam flashed him meant that he could kiss his work-experienced-ass. An expression of professionalism returned to Dean's face; he turned back to Jennifer as she continued.

"It's the same in any job where you're the apprentice, hon, you'll get there in the end."

Sam's jaw twitched uncomfortably. "Yeah… yeah I'm sure I will." He widened his soft, hazel eyes, adopting a pose that had won over many women old enough to be his mother. Dean's right, he conceded, I probably am more the 'parents type'.

Jennifer settled herself back into a somewhat faded, flowered armchair. "Well, I'm sure you both know about Emma." A saddened smile crept over her friendly, but wrinkled features, a feeling of guilt and solemnity passing over the brothers as they remembered that this wasn't a game; they were asking an elderly woman about her dead daughter. Well, missing daughter. Only they knew she was dead for sure. Speaking wordlessly to each other that this was playtime over, they both unconsciously sat up a little straighter.

"We've read the articles. But we'd like _you_ to tell us what happened, if you don't mind, Mrs Carragher." Dean leaned forward and clasped his hands together, trying to adopt a pose to soften his rough exterior and try and make him more parent-friendly, just like Sam. Sam seemed quiet, maybe he's sulking, Dean concluded, surely he couldn't be _that_ pissed at being called work-experience boy? If he will insist on combing his hair back all neat 'n' tidy like he's freakin' Clark Kent or something, what does he expect me to call him… He refocused as Jennifer settled back into the armchair.

"She was quiet, my Emma. A clever girl. Always got good grades, always worked hard. You must know, she was a singer."

Sam nodded, the pride in Jennifer's eyes evident. He sipped his tea, glad of something to keep him alert. His head had begun to throb again and cold shiver was starting to creep down his spine. Dean had laid a Dictaphone on the table, something he'd acquired via five-fingered discount from an office they had wound up in a couple of hunts ago.

"We know she'd had some auditions for a show." Sam confirmed that they had read the newspaper articles. "I assume she was happy about that – it's what she'd always wanted, right?"

"I think she was nervous, I mean, who wouldn't be? She loved musicals. She'd done some work for local theatre companies; lots of stuff. Maria and Grisabella were her favourite parts so far." Jennifer's eyes shone proudly as the Winchesters struggled to hide their confused looks.

"So... she wanted to play those parts in New York? I'm sure it'd be every girl's dream to play... Grisalina on Broadway?" Dean raised his eyebrows. What the hell was this woman talking about?

Jennifer smiled, politely glossing over Dean's mistake. "Yeah, I'm sure she'd've felt that was a dream come true. But her dream was to play Christine."

"Yeah... of course. Who wouldn't?" Dean gave an awkward smile. Yeah, the Plymouth Fury was sweet but how could a girl play that? And no way was there a musical about a killer car?

Jennifer sensed his misunderstanding and smiled at him. "It's okay honey, I didn't think the musicals would've really been your thing. Christine Daae; the soprano from Phantom." Jennifer widened her eyes and nodded at Dean knowingly. He gazed back blankly, nervously looking to his brother. Sam looked blankly back at his brother. He had nothing.

Jennifer's sigh made both boys realise that they should have done a little more digging. "Emma loved musicals. But her newest love, her favourite role ever was from Phantom of the Opera. Strange to think that all those years ago, it was new; it just opened in London the year before Emma... vanished. She spent hours at the piano with her score learning all the parts, not just the soprano. It really captured her imagination. It was beautiful to hear her sing it too, you know?" A slight smile crept over the old lady's cheeks. "It's the longest running musical on Broadway now. I'm not saying that she'd have made it. I'm not saying she'd have been Christine. But she never got the chance to try."

Dean shuffled awkwardly, sure he saw the beginnings of tears glistening in Jennifer's eyes. He glanced back to Sam who had broken his brother's gaze; Sam didn't look up. Great, guess I've got to save this one then. "So... there was no reason that she wouldn't want to move away then?" Dumb question, Winchester... but it was the best he could come up with.

Jennifer gave a small laugh, sensing the awkwardness of the young men in front of her. "Of course not. It obviously meant she'd have to go to New York. And she hadn't quite landed a part yet but she'd had some auditions for chorus lines. She was hoping by moving it'd be much easier to land a part. She was moving away from her family, from me, from her Dad, for the first time. And we were gonna miss her something crazy. But I think she was excited."

Something tugged at Sam, deep down. He wondered if his family had ever come to the same conclusion when he'd gone away to Stanford. Jennifer gazed towards a photograph of her daughter, faded a little over the many years of standing in the same position.

"Her performing meant everything to her – she worked so hard. Dedicated, people said. She was going to be a big star – but I always felt a little as though she thought the attention might be too much? She never said anything, but I always wondered if she wasn't sure she wanted all the people looking at her. She was a bit shy like that. To start with, we thought maybe we'd wanted too much from her, y'know? Like the pressure was too much. We thought she'd be back, maybe even after her birthday. Her friends said she'd started to see someone, well, get a little more friendly with him. A boy from school. She'd never had a boyfriend before, we thought maybe she'd want to stick around for him, see what happened there."

Dean nodded; Jennifer's tale confirmed the facts that Charlie had offered them earlier. He shuddered a little as her terrifying persona drifted into his mind again, but she'd actually known the boy in question. Class geek it sounded like, and like it had never got off the ground. But maybe something worth sticking around for when you're a teenager. He repositioned the Dictaphone, more for something to do as he didn't really have anything else to ask and hoping that Sam had something intelligent to say. But it didn't appear that he did; Dean sensed his younger brother fidgeting a little like he needed to pee, well, like he was uncomfortable anyway. He silently asked Sam if he was okay. A brief nod that he was fine, and Dean continued.

"But you, or he, never heard from her?" Dean inquired, becoming acutely aware of Sam loosening his tie and fiddling with the top button on his shirt.

"Nothing. It made us realise she probably wasn't going to come home." Jennifer swallowed deeply. It still hurt, even after twenty years. "Emma's uncle was killed three weeks after she disappeared. We looked for her for months, years after that, but we knew deep down that she wasn't coming back. If she had any intention of coming back, she would have been back then. She wouldn't have missed the funeral."

"Were Emma and her uncle close?" Sam pushed his hair back as he asked the question. His mouth and eyes suddenly felt hot and a little alien to him. He stifled a shiver, wondering if he was starting to come down with something. Crap. He swallowed deeply, aware of a slight ringing in his ears, stooping slightly and rubbing his forehead as Jennifer continued.

"They spent a lot of time together. Not really when Emma was a kid; he didn't much know how to get on with kids, he had none of his own. But as she got older, they seemed to hit it off. He was really going to miss her when she moved away."

Dean's ears pricked up and he glanced towards his brother, intending to give him a knowing look, their 'are you hearing what I'm hearing' look. But Sam didn't move his head from his somewhat hunched over pose. Dean was a little taken aback as he did a quick inventory of his little brother; Sam had suddenly lost all colour from his face – well, not all colour. He was starting to look green. Gotta wrap this up quick, he thought, Sammy looks sick as a dog.

"Maybe Emma didn't know what happened to her uncle – I'm sorry, would you mind telling us his name?"

"James. Jimmy – Jimmy Nixon. Oh, I'm sure she'd have heard. It was in the local news; it was an horrific accident…" Her voice trailed off, clearly not wanting to go into the details. "Do you boys really need to know this?"

"Not if you don't want to tell us. But it could really help to give a different angle. If Emma is still out there somewhere it might just jog someone's memory." A brief pang of guilt tugged at Dean. The grey ghost that Sam had seen proved that Emma wasn't out there, at least not alive, anyway. But it did the trick. The old lady continued.

"It was a work accident; he worked in a shipping container yard in town. He was crushed to death by a forklift truck."

Jennifer's comment set alarm bells ringing not just in Dean's head, but right through Sam's ears. Getting louder... no, not just bells, he was sure he could hear something else. Shaking his head, he tried desperately to clear his vision. He could see Jennifer talking, see Dean replying but for some reason, his head felt like it was in a wind tunnel. He pressed his good hand to his forehead, willing, no, begging his headache to go away, begging the... the _music_ to stop. He knew he was on the verge of damaging the whole investigation by either passing out or projectile vomiting over this poor lady's living room. And that would be frowned upon, if not just downright unprofessional. He clumsily pushed his large frame away from the coffee table, mumbling for them to excuse him, just about able to make out Jennifer asking if he was okay in a nervous, yet motherly, tone. Racing for the front door, Sam was overwhelmed by a cold flash, and if he hadn't been concentrating so much on getting out of there, he'd have realized that he heard a female voice calling his name.

RDGRDGRDGRDG

Dean made his apologies quickly and followed shortly behind Sam, scanning up and down the street, his heart rate increasing every second that he couldn't see his brother. Crap crap crap. How the hell did that guy manage to disappear into thin air so easily? The street was empty; leafy, middle class and empty but for a line of parked cars.

"Sammy!" Dean called out, not quite sounding panicked yet. Or he hoped he didn't. He ran his eyes over the street again. No sign of his brother – wait. He caught something out of the corner of his eye as a forlorn hand stuck up over the bonnet of a Volkswagen in a half-hearted wave. Dean picked up his step to a jog.

Sam was sitting in the gutter, his ass planted firmly on a kerbstone and his head down beneath his long legs, his shoulders heaving up and down as he sucked in oxygen as deeply as he could. Dean rolled his eyes, more at himself than at his brother; he knew he should have made him rest up a bit. No, not a bit, a lot. He sank down next to Sam with a hand on his shoulder. Sam lifted his head, his face white but for his flushed cheeks and a sheepish twitch in his jaw.

"Sorry dude, the walls were coming in… I had to get outta there."

"What the hell happened to you?" Dean demanded. He felt Sam shivering under his firm grip. It wasn't that cold – was it? His heart sank right to the pit of his stomach. "It was a vision, wasn't it?" Dean's tone was almost accusatory. Sam sat back against Dean's strong hold, the spinning slowing a little. He vacuumed in a deep breath, the fresh air helping his dizzy spell.

"No. I don't think so." He started to pull himself up using Dean as an anchor, forgetting his own injured shoulder and hissing through his teeth as Dean grabbed him around his waist. Hauling his younger brother to his feet, Dean gave him a look that clearly conveyed that he didn't believe him.

"It wasn't!" Sam protested. "I didn't…. I didn't see anything. Or, if I did, I don't remember. And I usually do." Although, he added to himself, I don't know what the freaking hell it was that I _heard_. He really didn't think that now was the time to tell his brother that he was hearing things. He pressed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. "Maybe….maybe I'm just sick. Or maybe the, the bang on the head…" His stomach gurgled again and he swallowed, pressing a shaky fist to his lips and feeling a little irritated that he had to justify his dizzy spell as just being something, well, normal. He closed his eyes, feeling Dean grip him a little tighter as his knees buckled just a little. "Just – just... can we go back now?"

"Yeah. Course we can. C'mon." Dean kept his voice low as he ushered his suddenly very young-looking baby brother gently towards the Impala.

Sam sank down, tipping his head onto the back of the bench seat and closing his eyes. Somewhere a million miles away he could hear the familiar clicks and flicks of Dean getting in the car, closing the doors, a rustle as he threw his jacket onto the back seat and somewhere, his voice warning him that if he was going to hurl to say to pull over in _plenty_ of time. Another voice joined in, saying something about being fine and telling Dean just to drive. He felt a tug at his neck and realized that his brother was taking his tie off him. He swatted at the fussing hands, stopping to massage his temples and weakly whining the words "Dude… gerroff…"

Sam forced his eyes open, expecting at any minute to be struck with a vision, but for some reason, it wasn't happening. Just a headache. A rotten, sick headache. He sucked in a deep breath, winding down the window and ordering himself not to throw up. He hated being sick. Window down, he closed his eyes again and slid back down on the bench seat until his neck was supported by the backrest. I don't have to sleep, he thought… Dean had turned off the radio. Sam clasped his hands over his chest and settled his head back. The world stopped spinning a little.

"So…. you gonna go back and see the wonderful Charlie tonight?" He'd have smirked, but it would probably have hurt.

"Ah shut up, man, thought you were busy having some kinda near death experience." Dean grinned to himself slightly, revving the engine a little higher.

"Hmm... you're not getting rid of me that easily. Seriously, d'you think she really had any extra information?"

"For a smart guy, sasquatch, you're kinda dumb sometimes, you know that? No, I do not think she had any _extra information._"

"So did I miss anything?" Sam's voice sounded a little pathetic, like the voice he might use when he was calling in sick. If he ever, ever got a job.

"No, your escape plan put pay to that."

"Wasn't an escape plan." Sam opened one eye slightly but closed it rapidly when the sunlight assaulted his aching head. "Jus' thought you were doing pretty well talking Lloyd Webber with Jennifer."

"Doing what?"

"Andrew Lloyd Webber. Wrote musicals. Y'must've heard of him."

"Well you could've been more help seeing as you know so much about them. Who the hell is Christine?"

"She told you. Phantom of the Opera."

"Just proves my point. We're hunting a geek. Anyway, it's a good job _I'd_ found out everything we needed to before you decided you'd done enough work for one day." He did intend to sound like he was joking, but on some level, he wasn't. He was aching and tired after sleeping in the stupid motel chair, for what felt like no longer than an hour, and worrying about Sam required far more energy than he had left. Which left him grumpy. "Did you miss the bit about the forklift truck?"

"Mmm. Did she say the uncle was killed by it?"

"Yep, Jimmy Nixon's next on your Google list, Sammy. Uncle and the girl were close. Although…" Dean chewed his bottom lip thoughtfully. "Did something about Uncle Jimmy not seem to add up to you?"

"How d'ya mean?" Sam opened his eyes again with a slight grimace and rolled his head towards his brother, who didn't move his eyes from the empty road stretching out in front of him.

"Maybe they were a bit, y'know, _too_ close once she got that little bit older."

"Like…" Sam's blurry brain processed Dean's suggestion. "Eeeuw." Wincing and rolling his head back to watch the asphalt's white painted lines vanishing under the wheels of the Impala, he contemplated the idea. "Suppose that explains why she ran away."

"D'you think?"

"Yeah... not likely to be what the papers say, y'know, overbearing parents and being forced to do something she didn't want to? Jennifer seems nice – sounds like the performing and stuff was all Emma's choice, even if she was shy?"

"It was a long time ago, Sammy. She probably, like, perceives it different. I know even after two years there was no way that Dad _wanted_ to remember the fight you had before you went away. I bet after twenty years, he'd probably have convinced himself it never happened."

Not having that conversation, Sam thought. Not now. "Yeah, maybe. But if you're right, maybe it's more likely she was running away from Nixon." He squeezed his eyes shut a little tighter, but carried on and answered his own question. "She didn't look like she'd been hurt though. So what the hell happened to her?"

"Beats me. D'you think maybe we need to check out who this geeky boyfriend was?"

Sam's brain was working a little more slowly than usual. It felt kind of squishy. Like, if he pressed his fingers harder against his temples, eventually he'd be able to drive his large fingers deep into his head, past his skull and like he was mushing them into a big tub of play-doh. Grey, icky, brainy play-doh… eeerugh, he realized, gotta stop thinking like that or I _will_ hurl. Think Sam, Emma Carragher…. Think… he mentally re-moulded his brain and switched back to the blonde image that had been on the laptop earlier. Think. Geeky boyfriend. Focus.

"You think maybe Nixon was jealous? Y'know, Emma gets herself a boyfriend of her own age and he can't handle it?"

"So he kills her?" Dean mulled this over. By the accounts that Charlie (there was that shiver again!) and Jennifer had given, the kid had been a geek. And it hadn't gone too far… had it? But then, she was eighteen. "Who wins then? Not Nixon, that's for sure. And why would she've set the truck after us the other night?"

"I…." Sam grasped his hand to his head again. Ouch. "I dunno. And why would she be killing the guards?"

"I'm thinking maybe the old boys covered up whatever had gone on there."

"I don't know, Dean. And if she's a killer, why didn't she hurt us the other night? She very easily could've done."

"Could've done? Sam, you might not have noticed, but you look like crap on toast, and I'll put money on you feelin' ten times worse. Something did a number on you last night." Not to mention you being beat to hell before we even started this hunt, Dean added to himself. Stupid kid, God knows what he'd class as hurt.

"I don't think it was her, Dean, I said that this morning."

"Well, what the hell was it?"

"Well, you were too busy being chased by a truck to know what was going on. Do we know of any kind of spirit that can be in two places at once?"

"What?"

"Well, she was talking to me whilst supposedly controlling a truck to try and kill you. Which stopped when I got pitched head first over the yard."

"So what?"

"Well, maybe…" Sam stopped and groaned a little. "Maybe we're not just dealing with Emma. Maybe there's… someone else."

"You mean Nixon?"

"Makes sense. Someone didn't want me talking to Emma." Sam closed his eyes again.

"You think something was jealous of her talking to _you_? Nah, not logical Sammy. Now if she'd been talking to _me_ then maybe we'd have been onto something." Dean smirked unconsciously, not taking his eyes from the road.

Sam sucked in another deep breath wondering if anyone would ever love Dean as much as his loved himself... whilst if he was honest he knew the bravado was just to cover up his big brother's insecurities. "How far is it back to the motel? And what time is it?" He was vaguely aware that his usually strong, deep voice had descended once again into a whine reminiscent of himself about twenty years previously. Don't care, he thought. I don't feel good.

"Y'know, Sam, if this is your head making you moan like a girl, we're gonna have to get it looked at. You've got a concussion." Dean shot a sidewards glance at his white-faced brother.

"I know." He swallowed deeply, considering asking Dean to pull over and drew in a deep breath through his nose.

"Sam?"

"I'm fine." He gasped, blowing the air out of his lungs slowly.

"Yeah, you look fine." Awkward, stubborn ass. "If you puke in my car there will be hell to pay, you hear me?"

Sam huffed and murmured something obscene under his breath as Dean glanced back again, somewhat panicked. How was he always supposed to know what to do when his stupid, clumsy brother damaged himself? They couldn't go to the hospital unless it was really a matter of life and death, because that of course would mean almost certain arrest. And God only (well, and probably freaking Hendricksen as well) knew what charges they'd managed to rack up on their records; they seemed to get longer, and weirder, every time they were unfortunate enough to have a cop read them to them.

And the whole Steve Wandell incident… Dean shuddered, not wanting to even think about whether that was on anyone's radar as yet. So medical attention was unfortunately quite rarely on the cards, and even less so at the moment. And Dean was about as far from a doctor as he could imagine. Hell, he didn't even have a decent bedside manner; all orders and no tact.

Little did he know that Sam would rather have no-one else take care of him than his tactless, rough big brother.


	6. Chapter 5

Great. Just freakin' great. Dean balled up a scrap of paper which had been lying on the table between his finger and thumb, lining it up to flick into the waste paper basket, which probably wasn't a brilliant idea as it was still placed strategically at the side of Sam's (well, Dean's) bed. Sam had crawled miserably from the car and curled himself up fully clothed on top of the bedclothes in a foetal position, his headache creasing his brow and flashing through the back of his eyes so painfully that Dean almost thought he could see it.

So now I'm bored, he thought. Bored, bored, bored boredboredbored. He puffed out a large breath, clicking his tongue in his cheeks as he watched his brother. Sam's chest was rising and falling slowly. At least he looks calm, thought Dean, an image of his brother's shoulder from the evening before playing through his mind like a slideshow. He let out a yawn, smacking his lips together slightly. He wondered if he could get away with putting on the television without waking up his brother. He wasn't even sure that he was asleep. Best check…

"Sammy?" He called quietly to the great, hulking lump of sibling curled on the bed. "You still awake dude?" He pushed the creaky chair onto its back legs, a bit unsure why he was whispering. Why do people whisper when they want to wake people up?

Sam's arm twitched slightly. Leave me alone, Dean… he tried to speak out loud but he was half asleep and he heard the sentence come out of his lips as a bit of a pathetic groan. He hadn't had a killer migraine in years, not since he was in college. Not since before the whole freaky vision thing started anyway.

Dean sighed, knowing that he had to do something for his brother, anything. He got up and gently knelt down next to the bed. Sam wasn't asleep, just had his eyes closed to block the light. The darkened circles under his eyes had deepened and his skin was clammy. Dean instinctively raised the back of his hand to his forehead, only to have it swatted away instantly, his younger brother's defences not entirely down. He pulled his hands away from Sam sharply, just to prove to him that he really didn't have any desire to touch him any more than was absolutely necessary. There'd been far too much of that last night.

"Okay, Sam, I'm not touching you. Promise." He breathed out slowly. Crap. I hate making these judgements. What the hell do I do? Dean glanced at his cellphone, laying open on the table. Bang on the head last night, vomiting this morning - but about a third of a bottle of whiskey last night, maybe a little more? Coupled with some pain pills and a really really rough night's sleep; should I just let him sleep it off? Or do I bite the bullet and get some help? His gaze unconsciously fell on the cellphone again. Just sometimes, he wanted to call Dad. Even though he'd never have answered anyway…. But it'd be nice to have been able to try. God I miss him... Maybe I should ask Bobby - yeah right, like he'd know what to do. Although he might. But, he reasoned, I haven't asked the biggest brainbox I know yet. He nudged his brother gently by his shoulder.

"Come on Sam, open your eyes. Dude, I need your help."

Sam shuffled a little, not yet asleep, the pain in his head making sure that he couldn't quite drop off. Shit, what kind of headache kept you awake? He squinted at his brother. "What, Dean?" His voice held more than a mere suggestion of irritation.

"Help me out here bro. Hypothetical situation. Imagine your brother's sick. Imagine you don't know quite how sick. And you got no-one to help you work it out."

Sam groaned. Yeah yeah… I know. "Okay. I'm imagining that." A shiver ran down his spine. Crap, not a fever now. I don't want a fever.

"Okay. So imagine he's been puking his guts up, had a real nasty knock to the head and now won't move cos he's got a headache the size of Canada. Would you let him sleep it off, or would you take him to a doctor?"

Ooooh… crap. God, I really really am a pain in the freakin' ass - the room was spinning. "I know what I'd probably do." Sam croaked.

"Yeah?" Dean was kneeling down, his brother's eyes closed again.

"I'd probably…." Sam paused and licked his lips, shivering a little. "…I'd probably want him to see a doctor."

Dean's heart sank, pounding a few times as it plummeted what felt like a few feet. If Sammy said he needed to see a doctor, he must feel pretty bad… Sam interrupted his panic.

"…. But then I'd probably be overreacting, and my brother would probably give me hell for days for not letting him sleep when he feels like shit."

Still a sarcastic bastard, he's fine, Dean thought. Sam lifted his head off the pillow a little.

"I'm okay, Dean. Really. Just grab me some more asprin and I'll get a couple more hours. Promise I'll be fine."

Promise was a Winchesters magic word. Silently Dean fetched Sam a glass of water and handed him a couple of painkillers. He placed them gently in Sam's hand and helped him sit up, Sam keeping his eyes closed as much as he could.

"I'm sorry, dude."

Sam gasped a little as he swallowed the water and slid back down onto the bed. "Wha' for?" He mumbled.

"You weren't ready for this." Dean sighed and dragged the comforter over his fully-clothed brother. "I just... just wanted to get back to normal again, after, you know..." He didn't want to say it. The possession. The gunshot. The murder.

"Me too, Dean..." Sam didn't look up. "Said it already though... Promise I'll be fine. Just..." Sam weakly waved his hand to show that he was done talking.

Dean patted his brother on the shoulder and deciding not to turn on the tv, he rummaged in his jacket pocket and withdrew his MP3 player. Leaning back again on the chair, he fired up the laptop, intending to do some work. Work out what was really going on with Jimmy Nixon and Emma Carragher… maybe I'll just do a little... surfing first. He launched a search engine page and typed in 'Phantom of the Opera'.

The slow clicking of Dean's blunt fingernails on the keyboard rattled through Sam's brain like a jackhammer, click, click, bang. The chair creaked a little. Shut up, he yelled silently. Just, stop it! He felt the chill from down his back growing through the rest of his body and he pulled the comforter further over himself, feeling his teeth beginning to chatter a little. God, I hate being sick, he thought. I was fine before… before... when did it get so cold!! His teeth banged together painfully as he curled further in on himself, shaking from the feeling of icy fingers down his back, down his thighs, over his chest… not icy fingers… _Actual _fingers.

The touch was cold, so cold that Sam whimpered a little, cursing himself for feeling so weak. I'm not weak, I'm a Winchester... the argument sounded stupid to him. He wasn't _a _Winchester. He was _Little Sammy Winchester_. Always had been, always will be. Doesn't matter how big I get. Always the littlest. The fingers caressed his neck, travelling around to the back of his head and tugging slightly at his tangled hair. The touch continued, chills around his neck, frozen fingers slicing down his muscular torso. But their touch was light; short, neat fingernails slightly scratching his pained skin. A shiver, no, was that more like a shudder, pulsed through Sam's body, his eyes still closed. Stop it, he murmured, maybe, he wasn't sure if he was actually speaking. Stop it, I'm sick, I've got a headache… no, wait, actually… I haven't?

Taking stock, Sam realised he no longer wanted to take out his own brain and jump on it until it turned into a messy, pain free mush. He felt…. light. There was no headache, just a kind of floaty-ness and the sensation, the gentle touch, growing warmer, another shudder running down his back that was definitely no longer due to the cold. A weight was bearing down on him, not an unpleasant weight but more of a presence. He was suddenly no longer curled up but felt the weight the whole length of his chest, pressing into his breastbone and running warm fingers around his nipples, down his stomach and towards his naval. He gasped as a tingle ran deep through his body, his eyes opening with the drawing in of breath and found himself staring into deep, blue eyes.

Blonde hair gently brushed his eyelids, falling in soft curls around his ears. He saw her smile, wide and white and he couldn't help but grasp the back of her head and pull her hot, wet lips down onto his, sucking in desperate, needy air through his nose and pulling her body closer to him. Her fingers traced his thighs, upwards, slowly as he plunged his tongue aggressively into her mouth, into her as her hands stroked higher and higher, oh shit, gently cupping his testicles as she pulled roughly away from him. Sam let out a slight moan as she moved her head to his right ear, tracing the lobe with the tip of her tongue and whispering 'I know you want this, Sam. I know you need to be loved. Know you need someone to take care of you…" She continued on down his long, muscular neck, peppering his suntanned skin with light kisses. Sam swung a strong arm around her back, gently pushing her hands away from his genitals, thinking no, knowing that this wasn't right…. But why wasn't it? What was happening?

"No. I can't." Sam's voice was a whisper. Why do I sound so weak?

"Of course you can… you want to, don't you?" Her voice was inquisitive, authoritative…. Yes, God yes, of course I do, he thought. But I shouldn't.

"I don't…" Sam sucked in another deep breath, again brushing her hands away from his bare thighs – I'm sure I was dressed? "…I don't even know your name!"

Something flashed through the deep blue eyes… was it a shade of black? Sam flinched slightly, withdrawing his hands from the blonde. Or maybe, just maybe, it was anger. Fleetingly, it was gone and the deep blue was back, one of her pale, soft hands caressing Sam's five o'clock shadow. "Of course you do, honey…" She planted a soft kiss on his cheek. She'd sensed Sam's reticence, fear almost and had pulled back a little, treating him a little more gently. His heart rate began to slow a little. Did he? Should he know? She did seem kinda familiar…

"Do I?" Sam was confused.

"Yeah, you do. I've been watching you. And you've been looking for me."

"No I haven't…have I?"

"Of course you have Sam. You know who I am."  


Sam's eyes grew wider and the warm, longing feeling inside him spread though his body as the girl leaned down into his ear and began to sing, clearly and as beautifully as he'd ever heard. A somehow familiar piece of music but not one he could place. But the words, the words were beautiful...  
_  
"Flattering child you shall know me,  
See why in shadow I hide  
Look at your face in the mirror,  
I am there inside."_

"What? No. Inside what?" Sam's voice was weak; his eyes were closed but he felt peaceful.

"I'm your angel Sam. _Your angel of music._ You're special, Sam. You need someone to take care of you. You need me to take care of you."

"But…. but, no I don't. My brother…. Dean's always taken care of me…"

"Not like I will. You know what I'm promising. Think about it Sam. You know. I'm here, nothing can harm you. He can't give you everything you want. _Say you need me with you, here beside you..." _Sam gasped as her tongue ran gently around his left earlobe. "Dean hasn't got a clue. You know he hasn't. I promise, you'll be safe with me. I can be everything you've ever wanted, just -"

"Stop!" Sam sat bolt upright, feeling like he was lying in a pool of sweat and breathing heavily as a huge crash echoed through the motel room.


	7. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sam sat bolt upright, his heart leaping out of his chest and his mouth suddenly as dry as a cracker, a loud crash still reverberating off his eardrums. What. The. Hell. He clasped the comforter close to his chest, not sure what would happen if he let go, mainly because he wasn't quite sure where he was. Oh yeah. Same motel. Same shirt that he was wearing this morning. Same trousers that would now need dry cleaning cos he seemed to be drenched in sweat. Nice. He looked around the room, sucking in deep breaths to try and curb some of the adrenaline still causing the blood to pump behind his eyes and up in his ears, echoing. The room was dark, the tv muttering in the corner, glowing blue and turned down low. And Dean was... where the hell was he? And what the hell had woken him up? It was dark, but he wasn't in the opposite bed, the light was on- he suddenly became aware of some movement from the floor.

"Dean?" Sam breathed as he watched his brother stiffly scrape his limbs back together with a gruff moan. He lifted himself up on the edge of the table and rolled back his shoulders.

"What are you doing?" Sam dropped his guard a little, taking his hands away from the comforter.

Man, that hurt! Dean glanced over to his pale sibling, who had suddenly dived up from the bed as if he'd been shot. Clearly disorientated, his brother's shocked, confused gaze fell on him as he picked himself up off the floor. Dammit, I broke the stupid thing. Stupid goddamn cheapass motel chairs. He picked the busted chair leg off the floor and held it up, grinning sheepishly. "Guess we might lose the deposit on this room… hey, ready made stakes!"

"What the hell…." What the hell did you do, was his question. But something else was nagging at him. What the hell was going on…. What the _hell _was he dreaming about? He smacked his lips together, his mouth tasting pretty disgusting and his head a little woolly. "How long was I out for?"

"'Bout three hours I reckon. You feelin' better now?"

"Well, I might be if some clown hadn't woken me up falling off a stupid chair." Sam's breathing was slowly returning to something like normal. He frowned as he tried to remember exactly what he'd been so abruptly pulled away from. A girl… there was a girl who…. Oh. He swallowed as he remembered exactly what had been happening in his dream. And it was so, so _real_… God, I don't have dreams like that. But who…. who was she? Sam cleared his throat, unable to place the girl and turning his attention back to his idiot brother who was now trying to piece the collapsed wooden chair back together. "Give it up, Dean."

"It just kinda..." Dean shrugged, dropping the wooden splinters back to the ground.

"You were swinging on it, weren't you?"

"What? No…. I…." Dean groaned, knowing full well that Sam was hearing Dad's words echoing through his mind "Dean Winchester, you put all four legs of that chair on the floor right now, boy. Dean, if you fall off that chair and break your neck, do not come crying to me." Hmm. After so many years of thinking Dad was talking through his ass and he'd never fall off a chair just cos he was swinging back on it, he rubbed his neck, realising that this was yet more proof that Dad Knows Best. Thinking that it was probably a plus that he'd only managed to break the chair and not any vital bones, he spun the laptop around so that Sam could see it. "Sorry I woke you up, dude. You okay?"

"I, erm… yeah. I think so."

"You think so?" Dean stopped and kicked at the pieces of dead chair on the motel room floor. "I'm not liking that, Sam. Tell me." He suddenly realised Sam had shouted something whilst he was fighting with the chair, in fact, that was what had caused him to slip off the chair. Nightmares again. Crap.

"S'nothin. Just a bit of a vivid dream, that's all." Sam shuffled uncomfortably, not yet quite ready to move from the bed.

"What, like a vision, vivid?"

"No… like…" I don't wanna say it, he thought. He's gonna laugh. "Like it was really happening."

"What was really happening? Cos I tell you, all that was happening was you lying there moaning and groaning. Oh, and you let rip pretty loud once too, dude, what did you eat?"

He's an idiot. I'm not even talking to him about this. He huffed loudly.

"Come on Sammy, spill."

No. He said nothing though as he stretched his uninjured arm above his head, pulling a face as he caught a whiff of his underarms. Gross. It'd been some headache to force him into bed fully clothed. Maybe it wasn't just a headache. He definitely felt weird.

"Okay, whatever." Dean plus short attention span equals not really a little bit interested. He was bored. I've spent all day waiting around for him and cleaning up after him, he thought, I'm so not up for a game of 'guess what Sammy's thinking'. He just wanted to get this hunt finished, find and burn Uncle Jimmy's bones and get the hell out of there and onto the next town, where hopefully there was nothing to hurt them, nothing to hunt just for a few days whilst Sam got his head back together. Besides, after three hours of running down the batteries on his MP3 player, nothing on the TV and after taking a shower, going out for sodas, shoving the empty pizza boxes in the garbage and remaking Sam's bed, he'd had nothing left to do but work. And he was pretty sure he'd solved this one. Without Sam's help. Who said he was the brawn of the operation?

"So, you ready to go through this research with me yet?" He interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms out in front of himself, the cracking of his fingers oozing arrogance.

"Remind me what's going on again…" Sam rubbed the back of his neck, grimacing as even that was sticky. Man, I probably have got a fever...

"Okaaay…" He drawled as he pulled the remaining chair, the one that he hadn't trashed, to the front of the computer and sat on it backwards, his elbows leaning on the backrest. "You know, Emma, the singer, eighteen years old and about to go off to become a big star…" Dean clicked the computer and a photograph of the blonde from Sam's dream filled the screen.

Sam's stomach suddenly felt hollow. Crap, why didn't he recognise her in the dream? Sam swallowed, begging himself not to puke again, he'd had more than enough of that. "Dean…." His voice was wary. "I knew I… that… that was her." He gestured towards the screen, his index finger shaking a little.

"What? You're dreaming about Emma?"

"I think…" Holy crap, no, she can't really have been there, can she? "It didn't feel like a dream." He shivered again, remembering the singing, remembering her warm hands on his thighs…her lips getting closer and closer to his naval… woah, stop it, Sam! He raised his eyebrows as he drew in a deep breath, wincing up at the ceiling and searching for a mundane image to take Emma's place in his mind.

"Sam, I was here the whole time. There was no-one else here. Nothing else here. I promise." Dean sighed. "Don't you think I'd have noticed if some spirit chick had been hanging around whilst you caught your beauty sleep?" He tapped a few buttons as Sam threw back the bedclothes and shuffled along the bed to join his brother at the table. Well, he would have done if they'd still had two chairs… idiot. He'd have to be happy with the end of the bed.

"So, Sammy, I reckon we can have this bottomed out tonight. Well, I can. You're going nowhere."

Sam's natural instinct was to protest, but as he opened his mouth he realised that he really, really didn't actually want to go anywhere. Not tonight. But he didn't want Dean to go alone. Nothing good ever happened when they did things on their own. A compromise, perhaps…

"You, you don't wanna do this on your own do you?"

"Let's think about this one. You've got a busted shoulder and messed up head and you can't go a couple of hours without getting dizzy and needing a nap. Don't wanna be a buzzkill but it's gonna be an easy one anyway. Just a regular ol'salt n' burn."

"Are you sure?" Sam's woolly brain tried to process what his brother was telling him. Regular salt and burn? It didn't _feel _like that's all it was. But he didn't know why that felt wrong.

"Pretty sure. Seeing as you've slept most of the day away I've done some research…" He felt Sam give him a look. Cheeky bitch. "Yeah, yeah, I can do that. I did cope without you when you were at school you know."

Sam rolled his stiff shoulder, wincing a little at the pain that was still there.

"Why d'you do that if it hurts? Don't do that. You never could resist touching wet paint." Dean scolded his brother and turned back to the laptop. "Anywho, going back to the wonderful and lovable Uncle Jimmy, he's buried in a cemetery in town. I'm thinking like he's seen red when his beautiful niece wanted to leave. What say he couldn't cope with her going away, gonna be up on a stage with everyone else looking at her so he's bumped her off and stashed her somewhere in the yard?"

"Wait, you still think her own uncle murdered her?"

"It's the best I've got so far. And unless you've got any secret ingredients to add to the mix, college boy, then we're going on my research. I'm reckoning Uncle Pervo wanted to keep little Emma all to himself."

Sam huffed. His mind wandered back to his dream. If it was just a dream. It still seemed so real. And if it did mean anything, if Emma had been watching him, then maybe…. Just maybe… Huh. "Dean?"

"Y'uh?" Dean was absent mindedly clicking at the laptop, secretly a little proud of himself for working this one out on his own.

"I don't think – " He exhaled sharply again. "I don't think Emma's as innocent in all this as we first thought."

"What?" He almost scowled back at Sam. What would narcolepsy-boy know about this job anyway?

"I think she might, y'know... Not be quite as naive as everyone pegged her to be."

"How the hell would you know? You've slept through most of this case so far!" Dean struck the blow before he could stop his stupid big mouth. He knew it wasn't Sam's fault, in fact, he knew it was probably his own fault for not watching Sammy's back properly, for letting the god damn spirit get her nasty little hands on his brother.

"Yeah, I know." He couldn't be bothered rising to that argument. He knew he'd spent the best part of the last two days being about as much use as a chocolate teapot. But if it wasn't real, or close to it, if Emma hadn't really been watching him, how could she have known his name back at the yard? He felt his jaw twitch and he lowered his eyes. He almost felt Dean's eyes roll.

"Sam, I'm sick of this. If you've got something to say, just say it." He tapped his fingers, not wanting to admit that he was losing his patience.

"Okay. Okay, so, I had a dream about her." Sam rubbed his eyes sleepily.

"And what was she doing in this dream? Using her powers for evil against Uncle Jimmy? Come on, Sam. Seriously."

"No she wasn't." Sam bit his lip. "It wasn't…. it was… It was me. She was trying to seduce _me_." God that sounds stupid. He rolled his eyes up to the ceiling. Kill me now.

"What, like, hitting on you? Come on Sammy…"

"No, like, full on… full on, on top of me, and there was… touching." He physically cringed, not believing that he'd just said that to his brother and gazed into the gross stained carpet, hoping that it was capable of opening up and swallowing him whole. God, that sounds just like I'm having stupid, sexed up pervy dreams. Dean's so gonna think that I'm just not getting enough. _Maybe I'm not._ He raised an eyebrow at the thought but kept his head down, not wanting to make eye contact with his brother.

Dean eyed him warily. His younger sibling had a weird sense of humour but – oh man. Sam's shy stance made him realise that, damn, this Sam wasn't 'Comedy Sam'. He really believed this. Oh dear. Seriously. Oh dear again... he pinched at the corners of his lips with his teeth.

"Jeez, Sam, you have a sex dream and you think a dead girl's visiting you in your sleep?"

Sam slowly wiped his cheek as it got sprayed with Dean's spit, a by-product of his brother's explosive laughter.

"And you don't think that it could be anything to do with you going to bed with the migraine from hell and the fact that you haven't been close to getting laid since Bobby last tidied his living room?"

Sam glowered quietly. He knew he shouldn't have said anything. His brother was laughing and snorting something about 'not ever having wanted to know about that bit of your freaky screwed up mind'.

"I hate you." Sam murmured, not realising that the declaration had come out aloud.

"Ah, Sammy, hey, was it like that scene in Ghostbusters? Oh, sorry, do you need me to explain it for you again?" Dean tipped the chair back onto two legs, Sam glaring and sure that his brother giggling so much that he was close to shrieking like a girl.

"I did mention that I hated you, right?" Sam felt the old joke was a low blow. The first time they'd watched Ghostbusters was one night when Dad was... out. And not surprisingly, eleven year old Sam hadn't quite understood the bedroom scene, confusion on his young face as Ray's belt seemingly unbuckled itself, and the close up of Ray's expression of cross-eyed ecstasy… the logic of Dean's explanation had been a little lost on Sam, who had declared "Eeeuw. Why would he want her to do that? I'm _never _letting a girl do that to _me_." Dean smiled a little, not quite knowing how he and Dad had managed to keep Sammy quite so innocent for so long. Sam started to unbutton his shirt, aware that he was still wearing most of his suit.

"Anyway, Dean, I'm serious. Forget the physical stuff, she was talking to me as well. And singing."

Dean howled. "Oh my God, the ghosts are talking dirty to him too! What did she want to do to you Sammy?"

"Shut up, Dean!" I'm getting mad, he thought, and it's hurting. God, I need a cup of coffee or something. He put a hand to his head, hoping that it would encourage his brother to back off a little. "That's exactly the point. She was telling me that she'd been watching me."

"It's just a dream, Sam."

"It – it wasn't!" Sam snapped. "She was singing. Something... jeez, Dean, it was beautiful. Like, spine-chillingly good – don't laugh!" Sam scowled a warning at his brother. "Something about... when we say goodnight. And an angel. She called me her angel."

Dean's eyes widened. God, kill me now. "What, like that Mariah Carey song?" Dean raised his eyebrows and placed a hand over his heart. "_I'll be your cloud up in the sky, I'll be your shoulder when you cry…" _Dean gestured towards the ceiling dramatically in his deep, but tuneless singing voice as Sam cringed.

"No, Dean! And that's…"

"_I am your angel_…" His voice escalated to a dramatic crescendo as he dissolved into another laughing fit.

"… not Mariah Carey anyway, it was Celine Dion and R Kelly!" Sam pouted. His brother was a moron.

"Ah, come on Sam… little Sammy doesn't want to sing cos he's got a poorly head?" Dean stuck out his bottom lip in a mock pout. Being stuck in the same room for over three hours really was not good for him.

"Enough, Dean." Sam huffed, his temper making his headache worse. Why can't my stupid ass of a brother stop treating everything as a joke and take me seriously for once. Leaning up on his good arm, he stiffly got to his feet. "Give me the computer."

"No. You're still sick, or whatever. You're not having it."

"I said, give me the computer."

"What for?"

"'Cos I'm gonna have to search for the song that's still in my head or you're gonna have to listen to me sing it all day. And you're not going to like that so..." Sam looked up to the window, remembering vividly the song from his dream. And much less clearly, he softly began to murmur. "_Think of me, think of me fondly... la, da, something ... goodnight!_"

Dean frowned – where the hell did his brother get this shit from? He had to admit, he thought he'd heard the tune before, somewhere. Sighing and getting up from the table, he made way for his weary looking sibling and parked himself on the end of the rumpled bedclothes. He couldn't help but notice that Sam narrowed his eyes slightly at the glare from the computer as he punched his dream-lyrics into the search engine.

"I don't believe you're actually Googling such a gay song." Dean flopped backwards on the bed as Sam triumphantly leaned backwards to his brother.

"Yeah, well, look." Sam's large index finger highlighted the first entry on the list, citing his search as 'Phantom of the Opera' lyrics. Dean sat up slowly and shook his head at his brother.

"So what? What does that prove?"

"Proves that I wasn't just dreaming." Sam's half-smile twitched smugly.

"How's that prove anything?"

"Well, I've not just suddenly dragged up some Andrew Lloyd Webber lyrics from my own brain, have I?"

Dean didn't answer.

"I haven't!! Jeez Dean, it was really her. It's got to be; you heard what her mom said about how Christine was her dream."

"Yeah but if any of this was close to real, Sam, the rest of her behaviour doesn't sound much like the quiet, band-geek type that her mom described though, does it?"

"And have you forgotten what really went on at 'Band Camp', Dean?"

Finally a reference to some pop-culture that he understood. "Fair point. And I can't see her genuinely being such a shy and retiring kid if she was a friend of Charlie's..." He shuddered again at the thought.

"Exactly. And she was telling me she knew I'd been looking for her."

"You'd been looking for her? Why the hell would she know that?"

"We have been looking for her, Dean. We've been looking for whatever, for whoever's been killing those guys in the yard. Why the hell would Nixon kill his old buddies?"

Dean opened his mouth once, twice, like some kind of long-since-extinct amphibious thing and frowned so that Sam could almost see the cogs turning. He knew Dean didn't have an answer. "Exactly. He wouldn't."

"Well, why would Emma kill them?" Dean knew it wasn't much of an argument.

"Think about it. She's got to be somewhere in that yard. Who knows how long some of those containers have been there. I'm betting..." Sam rubbed his temples. "I'm betting that she's been killed and hidden in the yard somewhere. We've just got to find her."

"Yeah, cos that's going to be easy, Sam." Dean wasn't convinced. "Why the hell would she try and come after me with the truck? I don't know, Sammy."

"You're just pissed that I've got a better theory than you."

"So am not." Well, maybe a bit. He glared back at his brother who was wearing an imperious, irritating smile. Smug little bastard. "Look. The cemetery that Nixon's buried in is three miles away from here. I'm betting we dig him up, bit of seasoning and a bit of fuel, once Uncle Jimmy's gone, Emma should be at rest too. You know, haunting until we deal with the ghost of the bastard who hurt her? It's classic, nuts and bolts of the job."

Sam stood up from the table; the glare from the laptop too much for his aching head already and sat back down on the bed behind Dean.

"Fine."

"Sam, your dirty dreams aren't pissing on my hard work. Let me have this one, please?" Dean did almost look like he was pleading as he took his place back at the computer. "Come on… I haven't set fire to anything in ages!"

Sam sighed. Maybe he's right, he thought. Maybe it's just me over-reacting. And maybe I didn't have to tell him about the stupid dream. He pulled off his shirt and picked up a t-shirt that he'd been wearing the night before, realising just as he was going to try put it on that it was wrecked, scissors having been taken to it haphazardly presumably to take it off him. Had it only been last night that he'd hurt his shoulder? It seemed so long ago. His head was still fuzzy. Maybe I should just trust Dean on this one, he thought as he picked up a button down flannel shirt from the top of his bag, raising it to his face and sniffing it. It'd do. Maybe I should give Dean this hunt. He sighed as he struggled with the shirt, sincerely hoping that Dean didn't feel it necessary to dress him again. "So, I guess we're goin' digging then?"

Dean grinned, leaning back as his brother changed his clothes. "Nope. I'm digging. You're staying here and resting your shoulder and your concussion."

"I haven't got a concussion!"

"And I'm wearing a pink thong. Sam, don't argue with me. You're not up to it and you know you're not."

"I'll be fine, honestly. I'm feeling much better. Don't worry about me."

"So not playing this game. You know Dad's rule. No hunting when you're sick. I'm better on my own than with you at half-mast."

"Half mast? C'mon, Dean!" Sam was aware his voice was getting whinier by the minute.

"And don't worry about you? I can't help it, Sammy. I mean, it's not every day your kid brother gets hit on the head and starts hallucinating showtunes." Dean grinned, but again, many a true word spoken in jest. "You'll stay here and like it, bitch."

Sam sank wearily back onto the bed. "Jerk…."

Dean picked his pen up off the table and leaned back again, launching it at Sam's head. Sam grinned, flinching as the pen hit the headboard, his brother's grin turning to a look of sheer horror as the chair legs skated from beneath him, a loud crack echoing around the room as Dean flailed for a moment, almost looking like he had about eight limbs before he crashed to the floor. He was silent for a second, and for a heartbeat Sam felt the familiar feeling of panic rising; Dean's eyes were closed.

"Dean?"

"Ouch…" He groaned a little.

"I don't believe you just did that. Again."

"Stupid friggin' chair." Dean picked himself up off the hard motel floor.

"You okay? I mean, you didn't get your pink thong stuck up your ass or anything did you?"

"Bite me." Dean kicked the second broken chair. "You're still not coming."


	8. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Sam pulled his jacket over his shoulders, aware that he could see his breath in front of him. Wondering if he could blow the cold into something like smoke rings, he puffed warm breath into the cold air and watched it dissipate. He lifted his feet up and wrapped his arms around himself, knowing full well that if Dean caught him with his feet on the seats he'd chew his ear. He gazed out of the window, the irony of being sent to wait in the car in his mid-twenties not lost on him. He'd done this so many times. And bizarrely, he hated it just as much. He hated not being involved. But more importantly, he hated not knowing what his family were up to; he hated not knowing they were safe. A weary shiver ran down his spine and he yawned. He knew he should've stayed at the motel. Dean was right; he wasn't up to this hunt.

Although, Dean had compromised slightly when Sam refused to let him go alone. Short of stamping his feet and screaming as he had when he'd been about three, Sam wasn't sure what else he could've done, but luckily Dean had just rolled his eyes and groaned loudly. Which he took to mean he'd given in. He fiddled with the radio a little, not able to pick up a signal because seemingly Dean had left him sitting in the bottom of a ditch.

He fumbled under the seat for the tape box, the slightly collapsed shoebox having seen far better days. He selected the first cassette his fingers found, not bothering to read Dad's scrawl on the faded label. He gave a loud, weary sigh as he absent-mindedly played with his cellphone, wanting to call Dean, wanting to see how he was getting on, make sure Nixon's bones hadn't caused him any problems. He'd been watching from the graveside when Dean sent him back to the car. He'd dragged his feet a little, but done as he was told, sensing that if he hadn't, Dean might be forced to give him a direct order. Not that he'd normally obey, but he knew Dean had been a little freaked by his head and shoulder injury.

Sam looked at his watch. Ten fifteen. It was taking his brother a while. He mentally noted he'd give him another ten minutes. Ten minutes then I'm going to find him. He leaned his head on the back of the bench seat. To anyone else, he looked uncomfortable. But sleeping in this old car was more than second nature, in fact, it was first nature. If that was even a phrase. Rock music was almost a lullaby to Sam and the strains of Rainbow lulled him not so gently to sleep.

Dean grumbled under his breath, sweat pooling on his chest and underarms despite the chill of the night. There was little light in the cemetery, the moonlight fading every so often as the thick clouds obscured her silver-blue glow. Digging a full grave on your own was hard. But not without its merits. He almost enjoyed the therapeutic nature of the solo dig, at night, no-one to disturb you and the flames strangely satisfying.

Not really wanting to dwell on the fact that his chosen therapy was digging up and burning corpses, he dug back into the wet dirt, his shoulders aching slightly, pausing to wipe a bead of sweat from his brow and running his greasy palms down his grey t-shirt. His eyes fleetingly glanced over to where he'd parked the car just out of view; he couldn't get it any closer to the grave and the ground was wet; he didn't want to risk getting his baby stuck in a cemetery. No way you could call a tow truck to next to a recently dug and burnt grave. He thought about calling Sam, just to, y'know… Well, just to, check. He'd fussed over him for the past couple of days though and he knew it was time to stop hovering. He'd already lost his temper and sent him back to the car; Sam catching a cold on top of anything else would just mean unbearable bitching and whining and snotting and - he didn't even want to think about it.

He wasn't even being useful anyway; kid can't even do a simple job like holding a flashlight straight without wanting to do it his own way. In the end, he'd taken the flashlight off Sam, stuffed it in his pocket and said he might as well do it in the dark if he was gonna be a moron. Man, he shouldn't even have been there, the only reason he let him come was because Sam got that stupid, stubborn, so-much-like-Dad-that-it's-freaky look on his face, his chin suddenly looking like it could take a right hook from Rocky Balboa without flinching. And if Dean had said no at that point, he knew the look would have changed to the scary, lip wobbling but somehow aggressive glare that Sam reserved for just before a foot stamping, screaming temper tantrum. And that wouldn't do their discreet lifestyle any good at all. People would look. Okay, so he probably hadn't actually done that since he was about seventeen (okay, three) and there weren't any people around anyway. But he could still pull off the look. He drove his spade into the dirt, hard. Nearly there.

_"Sam, if you go near her, I'll kill you. Both of you. I swear"._

Sam jerked awake, gasping, not sure where he was for a second and then realised he was still waiting for Dean. He was shivering, his teeth chattering as he sucked enough air in and out of his lungs, a sharp pain probably caused by the cold stabbing through his chest with each breath. Oh God. He'd been dreaming again. Although, not so vivid this time, and not about Emma. But what? Something was wrong. And something was playing on the radio. Something entirely alien to the Impala.

The deep vibrato of an organ reverberated around the car, deep and eerie, the bass pedals growling and rising to a crescendo. Panicking and breathing far too fast, Sam frantically slammed his fist against the aged 'eject' button on the Impala's tape deck, swearing loudly as it jammed. The organ continued to swell and grow louder, a familiar but sinister interference flickering over the speakers. Shut up, shut up for God's sake. Sam's hands trembled as a female soprano voice filled the car.

_"Sing once again with me  
Our strange duet  
My power over you  
Grows stronger yet.  
_

_And though you turn from me  
To glance behind.  
The Phantom of the Opera is there  
Inside your mind._

"SHUT THE HELL UP!" Sam screamed, losing his temper as he smashed his fist against the eject button one more time, the old stereo finally spitting out the tape with something that almost sounded like a weird cough. He picked up the tape, pausing to read that Dad's handwriting definitely said 'Rainbow', opened the door and hurled it as far as he could.

Breathing deeply, heart pumping, he ran a shaky over his face, hearing what he now knew had to be Emma's voice echoing through his head. She's right. She's in there. Inside my mind. Hiding in the shadows. Saying she'll love me, every waking moment. He breathed out again, his breath coming in short, shaking wisps in front of his face. Crap. Crap. Okay... and... crap.

Screw Dean's macho ego, I've gotta check he's okay. Aiming to pull himself together, he glanced in the direction he'd flung the tape, some irrational part of him wanting to check it was still there. He flipped his cellphone open and pressed the last dialled number. Pretty much the only ever dialled number. One ring. Two rings… six rings? That was it. He hauled his body out of the Impala and put his jacket back on properly, unconsciously ensuring his Glock was safely tucked in the waistband of his jeans. Rubbing his hands together slightly to warm them slightly against the bitter cold, he set off in search of his big brother.

The wind moaned as Sam reached the top of the small hill Dean had parked the Impala behind, his breath coming a little quicker with the uphill trek. He called Dean's name, knowing his brother couldn't have finished the dig yet; there were no flames. He called again, his deep voice drowned out as the wind carried it away from him with what had to be close to gale force. Man, it was cold. He was sure it was getting colder. No answer. Nixon's headstone hadn't been much further away than this… He tried to remember where he'd sat earlier to watch Dean dig. It couldn't be – no, it was somewhere around here. He was sure of it. He shouted again, more urgently this time. Where the hell was he? Maybe he already finished the bones, put out the fire… maybe he's snuck off to take a leak or something. Yeah right, why would he sneak away, there was no-one here. No-one – not even Dean. Sam felt his yelling becoming more frenzied, almost screaming his brother's name, knowing that if he was nearby he had to have heard that.

Nothing but the wind, the headstones, a few trees, the cold.

Sam broke into a jog, not really sure where he was heading, hoping that his brother was hiding, that he was going to jump out at him… Nah, that was not Winchester humour. Well, not any more. Sam had never got into more trouble than the last time he tried that; apparently it's not funny to sneak up and jump out on your big brother when he's carrying a gun. He shook Dad's voice from his head, not wanting to hear the echoes of him tearing him a new one for that. _Stay close to your brother,_ the direct order etched in every memory he had. _Stay close to Dean. _He recognised a large memorial stone, marked with a large white cross and remembered reading its dedications as he watched Dean dig, shortly before Dean lost his temper and sent him to wait in the car. He knew Nixon's grave was behind it. He swallowed hard, knowing that his brother should be behind the cross, dreading what he might find, terrified that his brother had fallen and hit his head, or… or worse.

Sam gasped as he saw the partially dug grave, knowing by the way the axe, the shovel and, crap, Dean's gun, lay by the side of the grave that something was seriously wrong. Dean didn't go anywhere without his gun.

Not even to take a leak.

No, he muttered, he can't be gone. Sam's heart fell to his boots, dizziness threatening to overcome him, but he knew this wasn't the concussion anymore, this was sheer, blind panic. Dean wouldn't leave his kit by the side of a grave. No way. Sam checked his watch. Ten thirty. Resisting the urge to tear back to the Impala, to rev the engine as high as he could and rip apart the whole town looking for Dean, he pulled the shovel from the ground and dived into the grave, his feet falling almost exactly onto his brothers slightly smaller footprints. Breathing heavily, he ignored the searing pain in his shoulder as he scraped the remaining earth from the top of Nixon's casket. Come on, come on…. he gritted his teeth as the rotting wood became visible under his feet. He stamped his left foot down as hard as he could, hoping to break through the time-softened mahogany, wincing and swearing as he failed to break the wood. If you think you're taking my brother and getting away with it, you bastard, you've another think coming.

Frantically grasping at the side of the grave, Sam managed to clamp his fingers around the handle of the axe. His arms swung violently and ferociously towards the wooden box, his lungs emitting an involuntary roar through his painful shoulder. The casket lid split into close to a thousand shards with a resounding crunch. He swung again, yelling again, retching as the remains of Jimmy Nixon were exposed to the frigid night air and gave out the stale but unmistakable stench of years-old death. Scrambling out of the grave using mostly his good shoulder, he dug into Dean's discarded bag for the tin of salt and some accelerant, oblivious to the pain in his shoulder sending tears coursing down his cheeks.

Unconsciously cursing and heaving in short, shallow breaths, Sam shook the chemical into the void that earlier in the evening had been a well turfed memorial. His hands shaking violently, he snapped three matches, two blew out in the wind, dropped three. Swearing loudly, Sam managed to drop the whole box and suddenly he knew why his brother always carried a lighter. Wanting to scream, he finally drew in a deep breath and imagined what Dean would tell him. Calm down, Sammy, take a deep breath and think about what you're doing. It's not that difficult. He paused, closing his eyes and gathering up the matchbox and two matches. Not pressing too hard, he struck them together, his heart slowing as he saw the golden flames glowing and enveloping Jimmy Nixon's body. Okay, you bastard, let's see what you've done with my brother. He gathered up Dean's equipment, wincing through the pain in his head and shoulder, racing back to the Impala. Dean would kick his ass for leaving the bones burning.  


But he couldn't kick his ass if he was missing.


	9. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8 **

Dean groaned slightly, knowing that he was undoubtedly somewhere that he probably shouldn't be. Urrrgh. He felt the familiar throb of a knot at the back of his head, accompanied with the usual sick spinning feeling.

He'd done more than his fair share of waking up in odd situations, tied up and feeling like crap. Then instantly having to be on his game, think of a smart comment and get straight back to work when all he really wanted to do was to whimper, hold his throbbing head and miserably throw up his guts in a feeble attempt to make himself feel better.

This time was gonna be no different. Breathing in slowly, he prepared himself. Dean slowly opened one eye, the details of the hunt for Jimmy Nixon's spirit coming back to him slowly, and expecting to be faced with him. He knew he hadn't finished the burn. It was pitch black. And it smelled bad. Not too strong, but the years-old damp smell of stale death hit Dean's nostrils, adding to his panic. He breathed in deeper, trying to stop the spinning and the nausea, but as he breathed it just seemed to get blacker, darker, and oh my freaking God where the hell am I…

He retched, probably partly through his panic but mostly due to the huge bump on the head, shamefully puking onto himself and God knows whatever it was that was next to him. He wasn't sure whether he should call out; he was miserably aware that the disgusting choking noises he'd just been making had pissed any chance of him remaining hidden up the wall. He raised a shaky hand to the back of his head, surprised to find that this time, he wasn't tied up. Wiping a string of puke from his lips with the cuff of his jacket, he winced. The smell was familiar. Gross smells were something of an occupational hazard in his line of work. It was a dead smell. The remnants of stale decomposition; years after the initial stomach churning stench, this was what it died down to. Stale. Sometimes, morbidly, he was glad to know that if he died, he knew that Sam would only ever burn his body.

Spitting and gasping slightly, Dean's overactive mind suddenly realised what was going on. He was in a coffin. He knew it. Where else would it be pitch black, and the only other thing that he knew was in there, well, apart from a disgusting pool of his own vomit, was a years old corpse. Shit. He's buried me. I don't know how, but the bastard's buried me. I'm in here with him. He's buried me just to stop me burning his bones. Dean breathed faster, harder, knowing logically that it wouldn't help, wanting to believe that Sam would come and get him, wanting to stop breathing like he was about to give birth but he couldn't, he just couldn't, he was trapped… a scream escaped from his lungs, how, he didn't know, not having inhaled enough oxygen for the last two and a half minutes to produce such a substantial yell, but nonetheless, he heard his voice echo around him as he prepared to try and punch to the casket lid – what?

He kicked upwards, simultaneously punching and hit nothing. He wasn't tied up. He wasn't even confined. So where the hell was he? He did the only thing he could do and screamed his brother's name. He heard the echo again, his own panicked, wobbly voice, calling his brother over and over again. His breathing slowing slightly, he noticed a slight glow at the edge of his vision, and he rolled over onto his side slightly. What was that? A dancing orb in his peripheral vision. Something dug into his hip – the flashlight!

Digging frantically into his jacket pocket, he pulled out the small torch and cast it's beam of light, his heart sinking as he realised where he was. Feeling somewhat sheepish for having convinced himself he'd been buried, his flashlight hit red, corrugated metal. The inside of a container.

But not just any container. His fading beam of orange light fell on an old radio, an assortment of cassette tapes stacked beside it. He sat up carefully. A stack of magazines was next to that, a flat security-style cap laying on top of them. He flicked the flashlight slightly, this time illuminating what looked like old fast-food wrappers and a crushed Pepsi can sporting the logo that Dean remembered from being a kid. He gingerly got to his feet, pressing the back of his hand to his mouth as his stomach threatened to flip out again. Someone had been living here. A long time ago. He knew who. There was a large door at the end of the container. All I've gotta do is open it and get the hell outta here. It'll all be over when I burn Nixon. He pulled at the bar on the back of the door. It hadn't been moved in years. Bastard thing's just rusted. He tugged harder. Come on… he started to kick the door, kicking until his feet hurt, punching until he felt like he was ready to cry and his knuckles were bleeding. Let me out you bastard…. I just wanna get out… His shouting was interrupted by a gentle voice behind him.

"You're not going anywhere, Dean."

He spun around. Not the gruff tones of a security guard that he'd imagined he would hear when the spirit inevitably showed up. A pretty blonde girl sat behind him where the orb had been a few moments earlier, her oversized knitted sweater secured with a wide belt around her slim waist, leaning back in a relaxed manner. She was visible through the darkness, a somewhat silvery glow surrounding her. She smiled at him. He gasped as he swung the weakened flashlight in the direction of the apparition, recoiling slightly as his light seemed to travel through her, falling instead on a decomposed, skeletal form, the remnants of her blonde hair still evident, her leather ankle boots still weirdly preserved.

"Emma Carragher?" His head was spinning as he pressed his back to the door, still kicking backwards with his workboots. Thank God. "It's okay, Emma, I'm going to sort this out. I promise. It'll all be fine and then you can….well, go wherever it is that you need to go."

"I'd save your energy. That door won't open. Not for you anyway." Dean looked at her grey eyes, sure that he saw a gleam of enjoyment, a flash of arrogance. She stood up, moving away from her body as Dean sank down the door to a kneeling position.

"What?" Dean's green eyes widened in confusion, and before he knew it Emma was standing over him, gripping him by the chin. An ice-cold shiver ran through his body as he realised what was going on. Just freakin' fantastic. Got it wrong. Again. The bitch isn't on my side.  


"We're waiting for someone." Emma roughly dropped his chin.

"Well, I think they're late." He snarked. About twenty years freakin' late….

"No, a new someone." Emma flashed Dean a smile. An ice-cold smile. He shuddered. "I gave up waiting for Jimmy a long time ago."

"Waiting for Jimmy?" Why would she be waiting for Jimmy? "He stand you up, Emma?"

"Don't be cute. You know he let me down. Jimmy Nixon's an idiot." She prowled around the container, casting a silvery light as she moved. "You know, he's not even actually my uncle. Just a friend of my Dad's who was always around."

"Emma?" Dean rubbed the back of his head. What the hell had she done to him – surely a ghost wouldn't (couldn't?) have whacked him on the head? "What happened between you and Jimmy?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." She wandered around him, seductively fingering her blonde curls. Shit. This was a girl who knew how to play a guy. How did a quiet choirgirl learn that? He suddenly realised, she looked different. Not the grey-skinned, stony-eyed spook he'd seen when he first woke up. She was… brighter. Her skin was clear, smooth and radiant, her eyes a deep, electric blue.

"Maybe I would." He did his best to flash her a patented Dean Winchester grin but feeling his hands shaking far more than he'd like. Flirts like to be flirted with. Hell, he knew that better than anyone. Takes one to know one. Emma reached out and touched Dean on the cheek, the cold of her touch cutting through him like a knife. He sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, the pain taking him by surprise. "Jesus, sweetheart, you touch all the boys like that?"

She laughed, a cold, humourless laugh. "You really want to know about me and Jimmy? He was an asshole. Took it all too serious and left me here."

"All what?"

"Come on, Dean, you're a worldly guy. Why would a girl like me ever go for a guy like him? It was just a bit of fun. He adored me. I knew he did. I could make him do anything I wanted him to. He had no wife, no kids, no-one to spend his cash on. He was so much fun to play with… then he got mad when I said I was going to New York. And even madder when I started seeing Troy at school."

Ha, knew it! Okay, so maybe it wasn't quite right, but almost.

"Thought it'd be funny to teach me a lesson, you know the kind of thing, that if he couldn't have me, no-one could have me. Yadda yadda yadda. I never thought for a minute that the bastard was actually screwed up enough to actually do it."

"So… he left you here?"

"Damn right. Thought he was just playing a game to start with; he turned up with food and stuff for me... for us both. Then he obviously thought better of it. Just stopped turning up." Emma's apparition rushed towards Dean. "And I'm gonna make sure he pays for it too. Starting with his stupid friends."

Dean's head started to spin. Make sure he pays for it? She thinks she was left here to die. Holy crap. Nixon didn't mean it. The moron was probably killed in the forklift accident and nobody knew that Emma was there. So it was a kidnapping. But not a murder. Well, not murder one, anyway. I've gotta get out of here, gotta find Sam. He jumped up and kicked at the door again, shouting for anyone, knowing that there had to be a security guard on duty.

"No-one can hear you, Dean. You know that. Don't you think that if they could, maybe I wouldn't still be here?" She raised her eyebrows. "Relax. We're waiting. I've got a new toy to play with."

"What the hell are you talking about?" His chest hitched; the exertion and the panic quickening his breathing.

"Someone new to play with, who needs someone to love and hold on to. Lots of guys do, you know. It's like having a puppy." She ran her tongue over her teeth, bending down to whisper into Dean's ear, sending a shiver down his spine as she breathed her icy cold breath past his earlobe. As he shuddered, a soft, melodic voice echoed into his ears, cold and terrifying. "_Say you'll love me every waking moment... Turn your head with talk of summertime... Say you need me with you now and always..." _

Her voice was beautiful. There was no denying it. But the eerie echo of the lyrics was accompanied by a cold feeling of dread spreading through Dean's body as Emma's lips closed into a sinister smile. Dean shakily looked into the electric blue eyes.

"Okay sugar, I get it. I'm guessing that's another Phantom tune. You've gotta know though, Christine does nothing for me; I'm more of a classic rock guy."

Her voice became steely and aggressive once more, her smile fading. "You've got me all wrong, Dean. I'm not just Christine; I'm Raoul. I'm the Phantom. I know the whole score."

"That's admirable darling, that really is but I'm sure we ain't got time for this..." My God, she's a freak. Come on Sam. His teeth were gritted and he willed himself to stop shaking.  


"We've got plenty of time. _We're past the point of no return_, Dean. You know we are."

Jeez, that probably means something and I haven't got a freaking clue what. This girl was cracked; what kind of girl spent all her time talking in quotes from some show? He turned back into the dark trailer, gasping a little and consciously facing away from Emma. So her thing was the quiet guys, the ones she could dominate. Hell, the girl was more than a control freak. She was a psycho. "You do you know Nixon's dead, don't you?"

"Oh yeah, I know. He couldn't bear to see me with someone else. He thought that by locking me away, he'd make sure that no-one could have me. Imagine him having to watch me with someone else. Forever."

"And the guards?"

"They're dicks. They'd have to be stupid to not know that he was up to something, that he had a secret. But I'm not interested in them."

"So you just killed them? The same way as you died?"

Emma raised her eyebrows. She didn't speak. She smiled. Dean continued, his nerves getting the better of him.

"So we're waiting for your date? Don't you think now you're dead you should stop trying to corrupt the poor class geek? Who's your next little lap dog gonna be then?" Dean's voice was a little shaky. She wasn't scared. She wasn't even close to being as scared as he was. She pressed herself back against him, the cold somehow not as painful as it had been, grinding her stupid, sexy, dead hips against him. He gulped. This wasn't a victim. She was a predator. She wasn't Christine. She was the Phantom.

"Your brother."


	10. Chapter 9

Chapter 10

**Chapter 10**

The tyres of the Impala screeched to a halt outside the gates to the small security office. Sam dived out of the driver's seat, his shoulder burning agonizingly after digging the remainder of Nixon's grave. Scooting round to the trunk, he panted as he considered what he needed to take with him. Can't take much, he thought, my shoulder's killing me. Settling on a salt gun, he slammed the trunk shut, not sure where to start. I know he's in here somewhere, Nixon's done something to him, got him somewhere to stop him destroying his grave. He saw a guard peeking nervously through the security office's venetian blinds, and noticed him suddenly scramble away from the window, seemingly in a panic. What the hell? Oh yeah… Sam looked down at the sawn-off shotgun in his hand and considered his erratic driving on his approach to the yard. Crap. He's gonna call the cops. There was only one thing for it.

Sam put his head down and ran into the office.

"Put the phone down, now!" Sam demanded, pointing the gun at the guy's head. His hands were shaking, the receiver in his hands. His watery blue eyes stared up in fear. But the phone was still in his hand. Barely flinching, Sam lowered his voice. "I said, put the phone down."

Hating every minute of it, Sam knew full well that the guy didn't have a clue the gun only shot rock salt. Although, if he pulled the trigger at this close range so close to the guys skull, it'd probably still look like some five year old had been finger painting the walls with his brain. His voice never wavered, sounding more certain than it had the whole of the last two days. He knew he was good at this. That was why he knew he'd have made a good lawyer one day; he could perform. There was no way this guy was going to mistake him for a confused youngster, no way he'd be able to say 'put the gun down son, everything will be alright.' Sam looked like he already knew what was going to happen. The guard dropped the cellphone to his desk, the rattling sounding horrendously loud in the cabin.

"Son, there's no money in the cabin, y'know that, I don't deal with any cash here. All's ah got's my wallet." His voice shook.

"What's your name?" Sam kept the gun poised. Chances were the guy had a gun himself. He needed to talk to him before he lowered his weapon.

"My, my name?"

"Yes, your name."

"Oliver. Billy Oliver." Billy's eyes wandered to where the Impala was parked, clearly looking to see if Sam was stalling for time on behalf of an accomplice.

"Relax, Billy, I'm on my own. But I am looking for someone."

"Well, there ain't no-one here except me."

"That's okay. Billy, I want you to put your gun on the table and move yourself over to that chair. And don't even think about trying anything once you get your hand on your gun, believe me, you are not as good a shot as I am. I'm not going to hurt you unless I have to."

"Okay. I'm... I'm reaching for the gun now."

Sam's heart beat a little faster. Maybe the old man was a crack shot, maybe he could have him dead before he could blink. Using the law of averages, Sam hoped for the best, assuming the guy's shaky hands were genuine and he wasn't Batman. Billy placed a pistol on his desk.

"Good. Now move away from the gun". Sam's hands were getting greasy. Game face, Sam, he thought, moving Billy away from the desk and into a chair. Man, I don't believe I've got some poor old bastard held at gunpoint. But he couldn't risk having the cops called. He reached back to Billy's weapon and emptied the bullets into his hand, slipping them into his jacket pocket. He lowered the salt gun, placing it gently on the floor and stepping away from it.

"I'm sorry, Billy. I just couldn't risk you calling the cops. And I hadn't banked on you seeing me bursting into your yard with a sawn-off." Sam looked a little sheepish, not really wanting to look so fearsome anymore.

The man's face softened a little, realising that despite what he'd seen in this young man's eyes just moments earlier, he probably wasn't going to kill him. At least probably. That had to count for something, right? "Who are you looking for, son?"

"A guy came in here yesterday, I think he might have talked to you?"

"What guy? Lots of people come through here in a day. Lotta people, storing a lotta crap here."

Sam dug into his pocket, Billy visibly flinching. "Sorry. Look, this guy." He handed over a fake ID of Deans with a recent ish photo on. They didn't really take so many recreational pictures. Sam gazed back hopefully.

"That's that damn reporter that came past yesterday. What d'you wanna find him for? He was a pain in the ass…."

If he hadn't been so worried he'd have probably laughed. "You remember him?" Sam's voice became more urgent. "I…. I think he's in the yard somewhere. And I think he's in trouble."

"What kinda trouble would he be in? If he's been snooping around it serves him right!"

Sam thought about picking the gun up again, but sucked up the old-timer's condescending remarks. "Look. I haven't got time to explain it. But, but there's something weird going on here. And I think it's something to do with someone who used to work here. Do you remember a guy called Jimmy Nixon?"

Billy flinched again at the mention of his name. "Son, he's not worked here for a long time. Nasty accident."

"I know. Forklift accident, right?"

"Right. Some folk don't think that was the end of it though, think he's still wandering round here somehow."

It always puzzled Sam when civilians talked about ghosts and spirits. His downbeat mood lifted a little – had he got an ally? "So… what do you think?"

"Whaddya mean, what do I think? Course he's not still here. Guy was crushed almost flat, not a lot left of him."

"But… but people think they've seen his spirit, right?"

"Look son, just... just get outta here. I don't know what you're looking for, what kind of trip you're on, but if you get outta here now, I won't call the cops. Just take your gun and go." Billy sighed. He was pretty sure this kid wasn't going to intentionally harm him, but damn he had some whacked out ideas.

"Okay, okay. I'm going. But, was there ever… did Nixon ever store anything of his own?"

Whatever kid, just get outta here. "Actually, yeah. Needed somewhere to store a motorbike once so we fixed him up with a key for an old container; no-one was ever gonna pick it up, it was empty."

"And did he return the keys?"

"Damned if I know, son, come on, it was years ago!" What the hell was this boy looking for?

Sam's heart was beating faster. At least he'd have a starting point. "Okay, I'm leaving. I promise. Where was this container?"

"Somewhere in the back quarter of the yard. Nothing's moved from there for years."

"Okay, thank you. Thank you." Sam scrambled from the cabin so quickly he almost tripped over his own big feet, leaving Billy Oliver in the cabin shaking his head. Strange guy…


	11. Chapter 10

Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

Dean's head was spinning, partially from the stench, the pitch black, the bump and from sheer anger that he'd got this wrong. Why the hell hadn't he listened to Sam. This crazy bitch had been watching them, knew all about them. Winchester, you're a dick, an arrogant, won't-listen-to-your-little-brother dick. Dean knows best. Dad knows best. He had to get out. He beat his fists against the metal, oblivious to the blood streaking from his lacerated knuckles down to his elbows, yelling his brother's name at the top of his voice.

"Calm down, Dean. He'll be here. You'll tire your little self out."

"SHUT IT YOU BITCH!" Dean almost shrieked. Suddenly he didn't want Sam here, didn't want Emma anywhere near him. He had to get back to Sam. "You're nuts, you know that?"

"Yeah, being murdered kinda does that to you." Her voice lost its pleasant lilt and was suddenly dripping with venom.

"Why the hell are you doing this? You weren't - you weren't even murdered, Emma. Somthin' just… just went wrong!" Dean panted. "Why Sammy? You've already got to him, haven't you? Why didn't you just take him last night?"

"I thought you'd know that already, Dean, clever boy like you – oh, no, sorry, Sammy's the book-smart one isn't he? Shame he's not as worldly as his big brother."

"Oh, spit it out sweetheart, I'm so not up for playing these games."

"For Sam to be mine, and I mean, forever, he's got to come to me. He's got to want me. And what boy who'd had nothing warm between his bedsheets for a long time wouldn't want it? It's been a long time since anyone who wasn't a waitress called Sam honey…. I'm his angel of music. He's going to come to me."

"Dammit!!" Dean screamed, punching again. "He's never gonna go for it. The minute he sees you he's gonna blow you away."

"Yeah, because he hasn't had the chance before."

He gulped deeply, knowing that she was right. Sam was too intrigued by Emma. She'd got to him. He had the hots for her on a deep, subconscious level, and somehow this girl had known his weakness, both physically and emotionally. Dean ran a defeated hand over his face. He had to get out. He just had to. He had to… he slowly sank to the floor. "I don't know why I'm arguing with you anyway. You're dead."

"Dean!" The muffled baritone of his brother's voice echoed, sounding like it was deep in the distance. But he couldn't be far away. Dean's heart started to race again, part of him wanting Sam to just get him out of this claustrophobic black box, another part of him wanting him to come nowhere near, to keep him away from Emma. Who was – where the hell was she? He heard his brother call again. She wasn't there. He panicked, kicking his steel toecap against the back of the stuck-solid door, yelling for his brother.

"Dean?" Sam raced to where he could hear the banging coming from. He was in there. Trapped. He heard his brother's muffled tones, sensing a waver in his voice despite the fact that he couldn't make out a single word. The wobble that was only audible to Sam, most of the time not even to Dad, just Sam. And it meant he was scared. He hated knowing Dean was scared. It was never good if Dean was scared. But hey, he reasoned, the guy's stuck in a box. And he did have a tendency to panic. Calm him down, he thought. He'd always been able to calm Dean down.

"Dean, man, it's okay. Stop banging. You'll hurt yourself. I'm getting you out. Don't worry." He glanced around, looking for something to jemmy open the door. "I can get it open, Dean, just, just sit tight!"

His brother was still yelling. The sound of Dean losing his grip, dropping his game face made Sam's heart pick up even faster than it was already pounding. Crap, he thought, he probably hasn't got a clue what I'm saying either. He walked up to the large hinged door, kicking it in frustration. I don't need a jemmy, I need freakin' dynamite… A cold shiver ran down Sam's spine as a loud creaking made him flinch. He watched wide-eyed as the huge container opened up in front of him, almost in slow motion. He called for Dean, not able to see him, no longer able to hear him. Where was he?

"Sam, look out!!" His brother's voice rose out of the darkness, Sam instinctively raising the rock salt gun at his warning. What was he screaming about? A silver-grey form suddenly rushed from the open door, causing Sam to gasp as he was knocked to the ground, the salt-gun skidding over the asphalt. Emma Carragher's hands ran through Sam's hair as he stared once again into the deep grey eyes, no longer the blue from his dream. But he could see the blue, somewhere in his mind's eye. He knew they were blue.

"I knew you'd come, Sam. I knew you couldn't resist."

"I…." Sam's voice trailed off. Her touch took him right back to the dream. She was right; he couldn't resist. His body weakened from the last few days' events, he relaxed back against the cold ground, oblivious to its temperature, to the open door of the container, and to his brother frantically screaming at him to get up.

"Holy crap…." Dean had fallen down right on his ass when the door suddenly moved open. He hadn't opened it. He was pretty sure Sam hadn't opened it. Yeah, makes sense, he thought, Emma said it wouldn't open for me. Scrambling to his feet and wincing at the shooting pain up his back, he was just in time to see Sam drop to the ground as if in a dead faint, the spirit of Emma Carragher over the top of him. He watched as she put her hands onto his skin, sucking the life out of his kid brother. He ran as quickly as his stiffened body could manage, dropping to the ground once again to gather up the salt gun. Shakily poising the gun, Emma gazed up at him as he pulled the trigger, dissipating her spirit with a sound like a vaccum cleaner with something stuck in it, followed by an empty-sounding pop.

Breathing hard, Dean offered a hand to Sam's good hand and clapped him on the shoulder as he pulled him to his feet. They gave each other a familiar glance. The one that said, "holy sht bro, that was close. Don't you ever do that to me again. If you nearly die one more time, I'll kill you". At least, that would be their official translation. Winchester was one of those languages where there wasn't necessarily an English word to adequately translate what they needed. The glance was probably closer to "I love you" than either brother would ever voice out loud.

"You took your time kiddo!" Dean struggled stiffly as he half dragged and half carried his woolly headed brother in the direction of the car.

"I…. I know." Sam shook his head, trying to rid it of the play-doh feeling that was back and automatically checking over his brother. Man, Dean looked rough. Blood was coursing from his older brother's knuckles down beyond the cuffs of his blue jacket, which looked and smelt like he'd thrown up down the sleeve of it. His face, filthy from the grave digging, showed tell-tale streaks from panicked tears. He hated seeing his brother a mess. But not as much as Dean hated to be a mess in front of Sam. Sam decided to say nothing. He changed tack. "What the hell is going on?"

"You were right. Emma's one unhinged chick. She played Nixon, got him hanging on her every world, spoiling her rotten. Nixon was a bit naïve, he worshipped her. And when she started seriously thinking about the gig in New York, she dropped him, started seeing another kid at school. Someone her own age, again, the guy was a bit shy around the ladies but he adored her. Nixon couldn't hack it and…" Jeez, I've hurt my back. Probably when I landed on my stupid ass. "...and he kidnapped her." Dean stopped for a second to catch his breath. "Give me a minute, Sammy."

"You okay?" Sam switched his weight to supporting his brother's weight rather than leaning against it.

"Yeah, bitch left me with a smack on the head and a literal pain in the ass." He allowed Sam to take some of his weight. This was gonna be hard to finish; they were both screwed up. "Don't think Nixon meant for her to die. Think he just wanted her to see how he could dominate her. See how she liked it for a change. Unluckily for Emma, the daft bastard got himself mashed by a forklift and no-one knew she was there."

"So it was an accident then? She's doing the haunting cos Jimmy left her on her own to die?" Sam lugged Dean's form towards the car. "Poor kid…."

"Poor kid? This poor kid's an evil cow. Playing guys for fools."

"Well, if they're dumb enough to fall for it." Sam winced as Dean shuffled his weight back onto his own feet and away from Sam's body.

"Dumb enough to fall for it?" Dean rolled his eyes. Sam hadn't got the measure of this case as well as he thought. "Dude, she's after you. You're next. That's why you could open the door. That's why you're seeing her in your dreams. She wants another plaything and she knows you'll give in."

"What?" Sam was confused. "Why would I give in?"

"Cos apparently you're not getting enough cuddles." Dean's breathing was still heavy.

"What?" This was stupid. Whoever heard of something so ridiculous?

"Sam, you know as well as I do, you've never got over Jessica. Hell, there was Sarah…. It's not a huge tally, you've gotta admit."

"Dean! We've gotta get back and burn the bones of a spirit that's done it's best to finish off both of us over the last two days, and you're bitching about the lack of notches on my bedpost? Jeez man…. Priorities." Jerk.

Dean rolled his eyes. I haven't got time to be tactful with this. "Sam, listen. You're vulnerable to her. Not because you need to get laid more often, although you do, but because you get emotionally attached. And maybe you're a bit of an easy target right now."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come on Sammy." Dean hissed again, another wave of pain shooting up his back. "You're not ready to be back in the game yet. Not since... not since Meg. Not since all the other stuff that we can't freakin' talk about. I know it's still in your head."

"How the hell could it not be Dean? I killed a man! I..." His breath hitched. "I _shot _you!"

"Exactly my point, Sam. You're a perfect target. She wants to own you. She wants to take care of you, promises to love you, doesn't she? You know? In dreams she sang to you, in dreams she came, the voice that calls to you and speaks your name?"

"What the hell, Dean?"

"I've done the research."

"You know what Dean? You don't... you don't have a clue how I feel. And don't you... don't you dare..." He stopped himself, knowing he was yelling. He looked away from Dean, biting his lip. He softened his voice, almost speaking on a knife edge and trying to hide a slight wobble of his bottom lip. "Don't you dare bring Jessica into this."

"Sammy." He knew they couldn't have this conversation, not here. And score one, big brother, for opening up that big old wound and jabbing at it with a big stick. And maybe wiggling it about a bit. "She's in your head and you know it."

"We are so not having this conversation. It was just a dream, Dean. A stupid, messed up dream." He knew his brother was right. He hated to admit it, but his defences were down at the minute. And he needed someone. He had his brother. Hell, he wouldn't have wanted to do this without him. But it wasn't the same. He missed Jessica so much. Missed how she used to take care of him. How she let him take care of her. How they looked after each other. How he could have gone home and sunk into her arms after a bad day and she'd have told him that it didn't matter, that everything would be alright. Yeah... like he'd ever had bad days on this scale whilst he was at college. It made him her perfect target. Sam hugged his aching shoulder a little closer to himself and turned his face away from Dean.

"Let's just get back to the car."


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 12

**Chapter 12**

"Oh baby, am I glad to see you!" Dean dropped palms-down onto the trunk of the Impala, all but collapsing into the arms of the closest he'd ever come to having a good woman waiting at home. He gripped his stomach, a cramp from from his injured back stabbing straight through him. Damn, he knew that bitch had hurt him. Suck it up, you're fine….

"There's only one way to sort this, Dean." Sam breathed, knowing full well his brother would hate the idea. "You're right. She's gonna come after me."

"I know." Dean's voice was gruff, pain radiating down his injured back.

Huh? Sam frowned. What happened to 'Don't even think about it, Sammy', or any other argument that his big brother normally threw back to him?

"You know?"

"Yeah." He frowned through the pain, breathing in sharply through his nose. "You gotta get her out of the way. Just be careful. I reckon I've got about five minutes walk back to her body. You go the opposite way, keep your cellphone on so that I can hear you. I'll sort her bones out."

Sam swallowed. The minute that girl put her lips onto his, he knew that his heart would start to pound and every last bit of warmth would be slowly pulled from his body as she claimed him for her own. But she was too strong; well, he wasn't strong enough to resist her. Not at the minute anyway. He looked nervously down at his brother, who was still leaning on the back of the car and sucking air in slowly. Crap. "But… but you're hurt, Dean…."

"Yeah, and so are you. Neither one of us is getting outta this one without a few scars… an' you know chicks dig scars!" Dean groaned slightly as he straightened up, wincing as he looked directly into an electric light, sending colored dots dancing over his vision. He softened his voice and looked into Sam's deep, fearful hazel eyes. "Look Sammy, just be careful. And so will I." He looked deeply into Sam's unsure gaze, knowing that he was unconsciously asking him, no, telling him, to trust him.

And Sam did trust him. But it didn't mean he wasn't worried.

Sam pulled his cellphone out of his pocket and dialled his brother's number. Dean straightened up and accepted the call before the tinny strains of Deep Purple's Smoke on the Water had a chance to begin. They nodded at each other but barely moved their heads, both switching to speakerphone. Without another word, Sam turned on his heels and took off in the opposite direction, still supporting his duff arm.

Dean's heart sank slightly as he gathered up the tin of salt and accelerant that Sam had haphazardly tossed onto the backseat after dealing with Nixon. At least there's only the girl to deal with now; Dean wasn't sure he or Sam were up to fighting with her jealous ex again. A lump rose in his throat as his younger brother ran off to play bait to yet another dead chick. Last time they'd tried this, he'd wound up with a broken arm. What else could this bitch break? Sucking his breath in once more through the pain in his back, he raced in the opposite direction, duffle on his shoulder and heart in his mouth.

"Let's finish this bitch, Sammy!" he roared, counting on his adrenaline rush to last just long enough to get him back to Emma. He heard Sam's breathless response come back over his cell, not quite sure what he said but sure it was still positive. He knew panic and that wasn't it. Yet.

Dean stumbled slightly as he found his way back to the old container that had been Emma's mausoleum for the past twenty years. He called to his brother that he was here. No sign of anyone. Of anything. He snuck inside the container, not sure what he was reticent about. He knew the boy-scout basics about fire; you needed fuel, oxygen and heat to start it. He wasn't sure that there'd be enough oxygen in the room to burn the body. He kicked open the other side of the double doors in the end of the metal box, hoping to let more air in. He glanced around, the light coming in from outside giving Dean a better view of Emma's last resting place than he'd had by his flashlight beam earlier.

It was set out a little like a kid's den. There were blankets, a few books, some 1980's pop magazines with curled-up corners. The Pepsi can had rolled further away from the fast food wrappers. Laid on the side was what looked like it could have been an old security uniform cap. Probably Nixon's, he reasoned. He pressed the back of his hand to his mouth, tried not to look at her emaciated, rotten body, her skeletal form just laying there inside a pair of old leather ankle boots that, weirdly, looked like they could have been new. He almost heaved at the wonderful cocktail of the slightly musty smell and with the sight of her skeletalised corpse, turning his head away as he advanced on the remains. God I'm pathetic, he thought... He'd seen plenty of skeletons before. But he'd met this one's Mom the day before. And he didn't usually come across them after been knocked out cold. Not all the time, anyway. Poor kid. Well, poor, messed up, scary kid.

His cell crackled; he heard Sam calling Emma's name out loud, yelling to her. She obviously hadn't shown yet. Crap – where was she? He suddenly heard Sam's voice change to a murmuring, his brother clearly striking up some kind of conversation. He shook the accelerant over Emma's body, tossing a lighted match onto the rotten mess that was once Emma Nixon, hoping to prematurely end her bizarre attempt to seduce his kid brother. It always surprised him a little, how quickly the flames went up, and Dean raised his forearm over his face and started to back away. The crackle of the flames drowned out his cellphone and he rummaged deep in his pocket. Please Sammy, please be okay…

"Sam?" He called into his cell.

A choking, guttural sound, someone gasping for breath, Sammy gasping for breath, rasped down the cellphone. Panic rose in Dean's chest and his stomach rolled over. "Sam!" He screamed in desperation. Dammit, dammit… I've done it again… BANG! Dean flinched, throwing his arms over his head instinctively as a sound registering like a gunshot reverberated over the yard. He'd failed to notice the sudden drop in temperature, the flames from the burning container still raging behind him. BANG! He instinctively looked at his watch as a loud scream tore over the yard. 11.30.

Everything was silent. Well, apart from the low fuzziness of his cellphone. Which was okay; Dean's still okay. He swallowed back a nervous gulp, keenly sweeping the area with eagle eyes. Come out you bitch… He drew in a deep breath, unconsciously holding onto his weakened arm. "Emma!" He called to her, his voice echoing off the containers. "I know you're there Emma! Come on!" He lowered his voice slightly. "Emma, it's Sam. Come on, I know you want to talk to me." Nothing. Something suddenly occurred to him. "Christine!" He called out, his strong voice cutting through the darkeness. He stiffened at a slight, but ice-cold touch on his shoulder. He spun around.

"I don't just want to talk, Sam." Her voice was still soft. Pretty soft for a dead girl anyway. Sam turned around and was hit with a shiver. He looked at her. Whatever it was that she did last time, it's not happening again… but he was getting cold. He backed up, until he was backed up against the cold blue steel of a container, shivers beginning to reverberate down his spine. He lifted his now aching arm against his chest.

"What… what do you want?" Do not let your teeth chatter, Winchester… do not look weak! He blinked. And again. But he knew he was weak. Knew she was stronger than him. Knew he needed someone strong to take care of him. His shoulders slumped slightly.

"You know, Sam." She ran a hand over his face, just like she had earlier that night. Sam winced, her touch so cold and sending a sharp pain through his cheeks and radiating down his neck. "I know it hurts honey. I know. But you want to be with me, don't you? Just me and you. It'll be just what you always wanted. To have someone love you. To have someone not be able to resist you. _Let me be your shelter, let me be your light; you're safe, no one will find you, your fears are far behind you."_

Emma's voice broke into her soft, melodic solo again, mesmerising and making Sam feel as if he was melting. He couldn't help it. Emma pulled away from crooning into his ear and looked straight into his vulnerable hazel eyes.

"I know you never thought that could happen again. Because I know you've had it before, and you want that feeling back." She gripped his face, reaching upwards, firmly but gently. Suddenly, Sam couldn't think straight. She's right. That's what I want. That's what I need. She'll look after me… He looked down into her cold, grey eyes, vaguely aware of his heart pounding. She reached up to kiss him. I don't know if I want to kiss her, he thought. It's going to hurt… but somehow, he knew he had to, knew that was what he wanted. He gripped her petite shoulders… should he be able to grip a spirit? He wasn't sure. He violently plunged his lips onto hers, a small pained cry escaping from deep inside his chest. His heart began to pound, faster, and faster. He was sure he could hear something, somewhere in the distance, a huge pounding, banging, like metal on metal, but he didn't care. He knew all he needed, all he would ever need was Emma. He closed his eyes as the kiss pulled him under, not even noticing his knees buckling underneath him as Emma pulled away from him.

Dean flinched yet again, his heart pounding as the debris flew past him, yelling his brother's name, his cellphone long since drowned out by the howl of the wind. He knew Sam couldn't hear him. But he knew he wasn't far away. Gotta find Sam. Gotta watch out for Sam. Dammit, could he not have held her off for just five minutes? Just five minutes Sam….. Dean stamped his foot in anger, frustration and fear as he attempted to turn around, run in the direction of his brother. Gotta find my brother. The flames were licking out of the door of the container, and Dean offered up a silent prayer to…. Well to whatever and whoever that the body had been consumed before Sam…. well, before anything really bad happened to him. He yelled his name again. Nothing back. The crashing carried on around his head, just as it had the previous night – was it only the night before? Dean's breath was coming in huge, sobbing heaves, not tearful sobs, just sheer panic. I can't find him…. I can't find Sam, I can't find…. BANG! Dean rounded a corner and felt the back of his head slammed up against a huge sheet of corrugated metal. Just great. A sickening pain shot through his skull, echoing down his already injured back. He'd instinctively shut his eyes with the blow, and somehow he knew what was coming next. He opened his eyes to the grey, empty eyes of Jimmy Nixon's ghost.

"Get the hell away from me, you freak." Dean spat, his chest still heaving. He couldn't move. crap, I have to move. Sam's hurt. "I burned you, you fugly bastard." How the hell was he still here? Dean clamped his teeth together as Nixon pressed an ice-cold hand into his chest.

"_I warned you and your brother last night. Stay away from my Emma_." The warning was deep, rumbling. A shudder ran through Dean's body. He opened his mouth to try and speak again, but a pain sliced through his chest, his body weakened and shivering. How the hell? I know I spent all freakin' night digging up this dead dude. Hell, I left him…. Did I even finish the burn? He suddenly realised that he didn't remember, something had happened… had woken up with all Emma's things around him... so cold… His eyes slid closed as he dropped down the wall, suddenly remembering the old security cap in the container…

It was like it was all happening in slow motion. Sam knew, could tell that this shouldn't be happening, knew he shouldn't kiss her, but somehow, somewhere, he wanted to. Needed to. He felt himself falling and couldn't stop it, seeing Emma's face above him, watching the color seep back into her cheeks, the lustre come back to her beautiful blonde hair as she strode away from him, a finger on her lips to warn him to be quiet. He knew he shouldn't want to go with her, knew that it was wrong, I want to stay with my brother, he thought, I want to stay with Dean…. why can't I call for him? Somewhere a long way away, he could hear crashing, banging, a scream echoed and disappeared into the background. Emma had long since drawn back from the kiss... where was she? Had she left him already? The crashing sound subsided and no, thank god, she was back, her hand tenderly on his forehead, warm and caring. Her other hand, not so soft and gentle, ran down his spine, grabbing forcefully at his ass and pulling his pelvis in towards her.

Sam shuddered at the touch, looking deep into Emma's electric blue eyes. "You..." His voice was weak and he wasn't sure whether he was really speaking out loud. "You've got to let me go, Emma. You know I can't stay with you. I want... I want to stay here with my brother."

His voice cracked and she ran a finger over his cheekbone, the bruise from the night before not hurting, and he tried to smile at her, let her know that it felt good, but something wasn't…. wasn't right… a small frown creased her pretty forehead. Something was wrong. She withdrew her hand from Sam and he gasped, beginning to cough. Holy crap, I can't breathe, he thought. An icy chill suddenly washed back over him as he struggled to draw in breath. crap, Sam, breathe for God's sake! He frowned back up at the grey form of Emma, starting to flicker and fade into the background. He drew in a shaky breath, watching her wink at him as she disappeared.

She was gone. Shaking, Sam drew his jacket around him. What the hell just happened? He looked at his trembling hands and pulled himself against the container that he seemed to be slumped against, knowing that he'd probably come a little too close for comfort to being Emma's plaything for the next, well, probably forever. The wind had dropped, but he was still freezing. Where was Dean? If he'd finished salt 'n' burning Emma, why hadn't he come to help him? He tried to call out, but the words caught in his throat; not enough oxygen back in his system yet. Someone had screamed. Oh my God. Dean. Concentrating all his remaining energy, Sam pushed himself from the ground, forgetting his injured arm and yelping out loud as he leaned his weight on it. Got to find my brother. He steadied himself, feeling like he was going take a nose-dive to the ground at any given moment. The yard was silent. Taking in a deep breath, he opened his starved lungs as wide as possible. "Dean!!"

Sam? Dean heard his name called, loud and desperately, over the yard. Coming Sammy, he thought. He opened his eyes, his fuzzy brain not quite registering that the spook that had forced him against the container was now nowhere to be seen. He stiffly hauled himself to his feet. Hang on Sam, I'm coming. He tried to call to tell Sam it was okay, let him know where he was, but his breath caught in his throat. He'd heard the scream, he knew something was wrong. Hearing the pounding of footsteps he knew he couldn't be far away; suddenly his younger brother flew at him like a terrified four year old.

"H…holy… .holy crap, Dean, what happened to you?" Sam gripped Dean's jacket by the elbows, Dean doing the same to Sam. He was still breathless.

"Nixon." Dean paused, swallowing deeply and shaking his head to clear the fuzz. "It was Nixon. Part of the bastard's uniform was in the container with Emma."

"His uniform? But I didn't think…"

"Nah, me neither. Maybe it was cos he was such a workaholic." Dean dropped his head down, shivering from the cold of Nixon's touch and desperately trying to get his breath under control. "Burned it... must've burned up now anyway. Shouldn't see any more of him."

"I heard you scream."

"No you didn't. I heard you scream." Dean frowned. "Are you... you okay, Sammy?"

"Yeah… if you didn't, and I didn't… who did?"

Sam bit his bottom lip, his eyes widening as he looked at his watch. "Crap. Billy Oliver."

"Who?" Dean leant into his brother again, the second bang on the head playing hell with his vision. He pressed a fist against his mouth and paused a second, begging himself not to puke all over his brothers shoes.

"The security guard you spoke to yesterday. Dean?" Panic rose in Sam's chest as he felt Dean grip his arm a little firmer, his face white behind the grime he'd collected throughout what now felt like a very long night. "Dean, look at me. You good?"

Dean cleared his throat and tried to focus on his brother, closing his eyes and blowing out a long, deep breath. "I'm peachy. Think… think even my thick head isn't too good at taking two bumps in one night." He straightened up and shook his head again. He really didn't feel good.

"Come on man, get it together. You're not gonna hurl, are you?" Sam winced at the thought of it.

"No… no… we ain't got time for that." Dean tried to smile at his brother, just to demonstrate, of course, exactly how 'peachy' he really was. "What about this security guard? Billy who?"

"Crap." Sam looked at his watch again, just to double check what he'd already seen moments earlier. "Just gone eleven thirty; he was an old work buddy of Nixon's. She must have got to him before she burned up. Wait here." Sam took off in the direction of the security office. Dean frowned after his brother. No way was he leaving him again, concussion or no concussion. Sam had been right so far. Best go with him on this one. Wincing slightly, he followed Sam, convincing himself that he didn't have a headache, didn't have an injured back and didn't need to throw up. I'm fine… ouch!

"Billy!" Sam's jog became a sprint. Oh no. Oh no. Sam rounded the corner, Dean limping behind him and gritting his teeth through the pain in his head and back. Lying on the ground in front of them, his pale skin looking almost neon in the floodlit conditions, was the oversized figure of Billy Oliver. Sam stalled, his eyes fixed on the blue security cap which had rolled off Billy's head and now lay about two feet away from him. Can't save them all. Can't save anyone. He swallowed the lump in his throat as Dean limped past him, dropping to his knees beside Billy's crumpled body. He took his wrist between his hands and pressed two fingers to his forearm.

"Sam." The plight of the collapsed man sent Dean a new burst of adrenaline.

Sam didn't flinch.

"Sam! Dammit, Sam, he's alive." He squinted through his fuzzy vision back to his brother. Crap, Geekboy, help me. There was no way he could lift the guy on his own. "Little help here?"

"What?" Sam's dazed, sick-looking expression was back. Dean? Thought I told him to stay… wait? The guy's…. he's….

"Do not space out on me, dude. And yes, that is an order." He gently slapped Billy around the face. "Come on, fella. You with us?"

The old man groaned as he opened his eyes, stuttering backwards on the ground as he realised that he was waking up with the nosey-assed reporter and the mad stoner gunman leaning over him. His eyes widened in terror as Dean reached in his pocket, but his expression relaxed as Dean pulled out his hip flask. Uncapping it and handing it to Billy, he smiled.

"What the hell happened out there? And what are you two doing here?" The old man gasped, swigging again from Dean's flask, handing it back as Dean stretched awkwardly back up to his full height. Sam held out his left hand to help Billy to his feet.

"Sorry, Billy." The guard struggled a little as Sam pulled him to a standing position. He was at least six inches shorter than Dean, so Sam seemed to be a veritable giant. "You know you said that people thought Nixon was still around?"

"Yeah..." His eyes grew wider. Both Dean and Sam knew that the guy had seen something that night. But he was never gonna admit it.

"Well, he's off duty now. Him and his messed up girlfriend."

"Girlfriend? What are you talking about?"

They shared a look again. "It's probably best you don't know."

"And it's probably best you never saw us either. Seriously."

Billy watched as the two men turned their backs to him in unison and walked away, neither looking back and both limping, the shorter guy looking shaky and like he may hit the deck at any moment. What the hell had they been doing? The tall guy lifted a stiff arm and placed it around the shoulder of the blonde man, who he now suspected wasn't a reporter at all. He scratched his head. Only ten minutes ago he'd thought he was having a heart attack, seeing a young blonde woman and an old friend flashing before his eyes… he knew somewhere along the line, the two (weird!) young men had done something to save him. He didn't have a clue who they were, or what they'd done. But he knew that he'd never mention them to anyone.


	13. Epilogue

Epilogue

**Epilogue**

They sank back onto the motel beds, kicking the remnants of the busted chairs and simultaneously groaning. The same thoughts ran through both men's exhausted minds. Man, I'm hungry. And I need a shower. But God I'm tired. Sam lolled his head to one side.

"Dude. I'm so glad that's over." His voice was weary.

"You're glad?" Dean's head rolled back so that his weary eyes met Sam's. An unformed bruise on his cheek was glowing pink and dark circles had taken residence under his eyes.

"You feel okay?" Sam didn't move. He ached head to toe, but he knew his big brother had taken more than a light ass-kicking himself.

"No." His back hurt. His face hurt. He was dehydrated. But despite that, Dean gave a small laugh. "You?"

"No..." Sam gave a small laugh that came out sounding something more like a sniff. Sometimes he realised just how surreal their lives were. He felt like crap. His shoulder burned, his head ached but he couldn't help but smile as he relaxed into the lumpy bed. But it wasn't too bad. In the big scheme of things, they were fine. Winchester 'Fine', but fine, nonetheless. He knew he should check Dean over. He was concussed. So much so that he'd let Sam drive back to the motel. About half way back Dean had decided that now, they _did _have time for him to hurl and he was going to take advantage of it in spectacular fashion. Strangely though, after that he seemed to feel better. I'll check him over in a minute, he thought. I'll just lie here for a second, let Dean get himself settled in. I'll just close my eyes, just for a second…

"Hey, Sammy?" Dean stiffly leaned forwards and loosened his boots, kicking them onto the floor with a clunk and leaving his filthy jeans in a heap on the floor.

"Mmm?" Sam's eyes were closed. He was still wearing his shoes.

"I wasn't… I wasn't, y'know, taking a cheap shot before." Dean stiffly rose from his seated position and hobbled barefooted over to lean on the small motel kitchenette. He splashed cool water over his face. Man, that felt good. He rinsed out his mouth with cold water and spat back into the sink, gasping slightly. He knew he was concussed. Again. Dammit.

"Hmm? Whaddya mean…." Dean knew from the tone of Sam's voice, he didn't need an answer. He was nearly asleep. But he had to carry on. He might never say it again and it'd just become another freaking argument that they could never mention. And something else for his brother to brood over. And besides, he thought, if this gets emo, I can blame the concussion…

When I mentioned Jessica." Dean struggled back over to Sam, his voice gentle. He paused by the end of the bed, his brother's long legs hanging over the edge and took Sam's gargantuan ankle in his hands, not stopping for a minute to remember that Sammy was now a grown-up and could sleep wearing his shoes if he chose to.

Sam opened his eyes at his brother's awkward apology, and at the surprising feeling of his boots being removed, a distant memory being stirred of Dean taking off his shoes and putting him in bed after falling asleep in the car, or doing his homework. Dean's voice sounded a long way away in the semi-darkness of the motel room. Sam sighed and closed his eyes, not making a fuss and letting Dean be his big brother. Probably seems logical to him at the moment; his head is mashed.

"I know."

"So… we're good then?" Dean dropped Sam's boots to the floor and settled back onto his own bed.

"Mmmm. Better now Christine's not going to be singing to me in my sleep." Sam rolled his head onto his pillow, pulling his feet up closer to him. His brother had been right. He'd known it all along. And he wasn't even nearly over Jessica. But probably never quite would be. He knew that he had to move on, but it didn't mean that he would ever be over her. He knew he was more like his Dad than he cared to admit.

"She wasn't Christine." Dean's quiet voice floated through the darkness once more, Sam sensing an air of mischief in his brother's tone.

"Hmm?" Sam didn't look up.

"Said she wasn't Christine."

"What the hell are you talking about?" His brother had his attention and he leaned up, groaning slightly. "Are you sure you feel okay now? Do we need to get that bump on the head looked at?"

"Think about it. Spirit came to Christine and then got jealous of her relationship with Raoul. Phantom kidnaps her 'cos he thinks he owns her..."

"Surely that makes Nixon the Phantom then?" Sam wearily clicked some buttons on his cellphone, setting the alarm to wake him up in a couple of hours to check Dean's concussion.

"Yeah maybe. Either way it's not a good story for Emma to have got her mind messed up in."

"Suppose not." Sam settled his head back into the pillow. "And I hope you learned that from a Google search and not from somewhere deep in your subconscious."

"I don't know what you're talking about. I don't have a subconscious." Dean sniggered slightly. "I was right you know."

"'Bout what?" Sam rolled over, suddenly realising that he was still fully dressed. He unbuttoned his jeans and kicked them off onto the floor without sitting up.

"I told you that you could die if you don't have enough sex."

"You're a big fat stupid jerk, you know that. That's got nothing to do with it. Go to sleep." Sam buried his face in the pillow, the reality of his own vulnerability being glossed over by thoughts of hurling his pillow at Dean. He was only deterred by the fact that he was exhausted, and the likelihood that Dean probably wouldn't give it back. I hate him. I do. Dean didn't answer. "Dean?"

For a second, Sam thought his brother had dropped off to sleep already. Sam leaned up and looked over to his brother. His shoulders were shaking. He started audibly laughing a few seconds later, Sam glaring over at him.

"Just…. shut up." Sam rolled so that his back was to his jerk off of a brother. "Hey, Dean?"

"Go to sleep, Christine." Dean mumbled through his giggles.

"No... I've got a confession to make." Sam rolled back, a slight grin replacing his weary expression.

"Confession? What the hell Sam?"

"I'm sorry. I threw your Andrew Lloyd Webber tape out of the car window."

Dean leaned up with a confused frown. "You threw what where?"

Sam rolled back over. "Nothing. Go to sleep.

Dean couldn't help but smile and wonder if he'd ever actually know what his weirdo little brother was talking about. He sniggered through the darkness. He rolled over, knowing that he'd feel like he'd been hit by a ton of bricks in the morning. But it would heal. And so would Sam. And they were okay. Again. Settling down into the darkness, he heard Sam's breathing even out and a light snore emanating from his brother.

"Night Sam," he murmured gently, closing his eyes, finally able to relax knowing they were both safe. 'Fine', even.

At least for tonight.

_No more talk of darkness  
Forget these wide eyed fears  
I'm here, nothing can harm you  
My words will warm and calm you  
Let me be your freedom  
Let daylight dry your tears,  
I'm here, with you beside you  
To guard you and to guide you.  
Sam you love me every waking moment  
Turn my head with talk of summertime  
Sal you need me with you now and always  
Promise me that all you say is true.  
That's all I ask of you._


End file.
